11
I fly and fly, with no real direction, confusion and pain driving me. I find myself in Germany, where I stop an out-of-control bus from careening into a group of tourists. Next, I’m in the South African city of Cape Town, where I put out an apartment fire. I stop the Sayano-Shushenskaya Dam from breaking in Khakassia, Russia and rescue three hikers from an avalanche in the Swiss Alps. I go and go, moving from one emergency to the next. Almost as though I must prove that my intentions are honest.
Eventually, as the Sun is just beginning to rise over the Atlantic Ocean, I find myself back in Metropolis. I stagger into the apartment. His apartment. Not mine, I remind myself. It is still dark, not yet illuminated by the growing light of day, and without bothering to change, I fall into bed. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:02 a.m. I close my eyes, but all I see is Jonathan Kent’s angry expression. Lois’s words echo in my head.
“…grief does funny things to people.” I pull the cape around myself and fall into an exhausted sleep. My dreams are tinged red, filled with explosions and screams and lifeless bodies and blood. I hear words in a strange language, but I understand.
“He must die, Kal. That is the only way.” My own voice argues in vain,
“There has to be another option. We have to break this cycle of bloodshed. There needs to be peace.” Another voice booms through the dark corridor,
“Killing him is the only way to bring peace, Lord Kal-El.” I feel myself spiraling down a dark tunnel. Hands reach at me from the darkness. Faces I cannot see crying for help. It starts to rain, but the rain is thick, viscous, and dark red. Blood. So much blood. I can’t breathe, and I claw frantically at my throat.
A loud knock at the door wakes me, and I sit up abruptly and suck in a deep breath. Sweat drips down my face, and images from the dream linger in my mind. I feel myself trembling. The knock comes again, even louder, and I glance at the clock on the nightstand as I rub the sleep out of my eyes. 6:58 a.m. Who would be here so early? I stand shakily and spin into regular clothes as I jog through the living room, straightening my glasses. I immediately recognize Lois’s heartbeat, regular but fast, and I steady myself with another deep breath as I reach out and open the door.
She stands stiffly, her hand outstretched to knock again, and she quickly pulls her hand away as her eyes meet mine. Her concerned expression fades, and her lips part slightly in a smile.
“Good morning, Clark!” she says cheerfully, and she pushes past me into the apartment. In a daze, I close the door and turn around. She is already halfway through the living room. I shake my head and start down the stairs after her.
“Good morning, Lois. It’s, uh, pretty early. I, uh…” My voice trails off. She’s at the cupboard now, pulling out two plates. A white paper bag sits on the counter with some colorful block letters on the side. Food? Isn’t it a bit early for food? I screw my eyes shut for a moment. “Wh-what’s up?”
“Did you have a Bobby Bigmouth’s Bagels and Buns in your universe?”
“No, I don’t—”
“Oh, you haven’t lived until you’ve had Bobby’s breakfast bagels,” she interrupts. I stop in front of the kitchen table and rest my hands on the back of a chair. My brain still feels fuzzy, but I recognize her anxious mannerisms. “Here, try it. Eggs and bacon and cheddar. And the bagels are fresh.” She places one of the plates at the table in front of me. It does look good. I eye her suspiciously, and a thought crosses my mind.
“Martha called you, didn’t she?”
Her eyes meet mine, and I have my answer. I drop my head to my chest and scoot back the chair to sit. Lois copies me, sitting across from me. She places her hands on the table.
“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.
I don’t answer right away. The meeting with Martha and Jonathan Kent replays in my mind, and I feel Jonathan’s anger, cold and unforgiving. His grief had fueled his rage. I suddenly feel a profound sadness of my own, and I close my eyes again. There will be no changing how he looks at me. He may realize I have honest intentions, but his pain runs too deep. His love for his son will not allow him to accept me.
“No,” I answer honestly. I exhale sharply and look up at her. She is watching me carefully, her head tilted slightly. Her hair is down today, and it falls well below her shoulders in long dark curls. Beautiful. “But I will be. Jonathan…he is just grieving, and he took his anger out on me.” My voice is nearly a whisper. She nods and drops her eyes to her bagel.
“He’s always been a bit quick to judge and a little hot-headed,” Lois admits. She picks up her bagel and takes a big bite. “But he will come around.”
She sounds so certain that I don’t want to argue with her. Instead, I just nod and take a bite of my bagel. The flavors are perfectly balanced, and the bagel is chewy and warm.
“It’s good, right?” she asks. She stands and moves to the counter, where she starts a pot of coffee.
“Very good. Thank you,” I reply.
She turns to smile at me, and as my eyes meet hers, I immediately feel better. My stomach flutters, and I swallow hard as I look back to my plate. She’s not mine, I remind myself again. But I feel a strong surge of love toward this amazingly thoughtful woman, and I wonder how I’m going to stay indifferent to these feelings. Maybe they are his feelings. I’ve felt other emotions of his, so it isn’t too much of a stretch. In any case, a distraction would be good right about now.
“Um, did you want to go into work tomorrow, or is it too soon still? Perry said I could be on leave as long as I needed, so I figured it’s up to you.”
“Oh, um…” She hesitates, then turns back to pour us each a cup of coffee. Her hand trembles slightly as she sets a cup of the steaming black liquid in front of me. “Yeah, that is probably a good idea.” She sits heavily in her chair and holds her cup up to her lips. It is too hot to drink, but she blows on it absently, her eyes staring at the table.
“Only if you’re ready,” I say. I take a long sip of my own coffee. The familiar taste is comforting.
“It would be nice to have a distraction,” she admits, echoing my earlier thoughts. “But…” She pauses and sets down her cup, meeting my eyes with a serious expression. I nod in understanding before she even continues.
“I know I’m not him, Lois. However you want to approach our, uh, public relationship is completely up to you.” I hope this appeases her, but she just looks more uncertain. She swallows another bite of her bagel and then wraps her arms around herself protectively.
“He was very physical in our relationship,” she explains quietly, her eyes closed as she remembers. “He’d hold my hand or have his hand on my waist or around my shoulders. And he’d hug and kiss me all the time. He always said he wanted me to feel loved and special, regardless of where we were or who was around.”
A flash of light and warmth surrounds me, and I’m suddenly in the newsroom of the Daily Planet, standing behind her at her desk. She types a story, her fingers flying over the keyboard, and I lean over and point to the screen.
“It should read ‘A spokesperson for the FBI’ here.” She swats me playfully on the arm and continues typing.
“Don’t edit my copy, Kent, you know better.” My hands venture to her shoulders, and I lean over and kiss her cheek.
“Okay,” I say huskily. I kiss her again.
“But you know when I do edit your copy, we usually get out of here a lot quicker. And there’s a few things I can think of that I’d much rather be doing right now.” My hand gently grazes her neck, brushing a stray lock of hair back. I hear her heart beat faster. She moves the cursor on the screen back to the sentence I’d pointed out and quickly fixes the error.
“Mmm, better now,” I whisper. My hands rub her shoulders suggestively, and I straighten up and clear my throat.
My eyes flutter open back in the apartment, and she’s staring at me with a strange expression on her face. I can still feel my lips on her skin. I swallow as I adjust my glasses.
“Where did you go just now?” she asks suspiciously. “You completely spaced out for a second there.”
“Sorry, I just, um, remembered, um…” I mumble, and my voice trails off. I shove another bite of bagel and egg into my mouth, giving myself a moment to think. God, I hate this lying. But I can’t very well tell her that I’m somehow having flashbacks of memories that are obviously of her and her Clark. I shift uneasily in my seat. “I just…It’s nothing. Sorry.”
I smile sheepishly at her, and although I can tell she is not convinced, she doesn’t push. Her eyes drop to her coffee cup.
“Anyways, um, I’m sure we can get away with a little hand holding here and there,” she suggests quietly. She quickly adds, “As two friends supporting each other, that is.”
“Of course,” I agree. I feel a need to reassure her. “Lois, I hope you know that I don’t expect—”
“No, I know, Clark. It’s just…” She pauses and exhales sharply. Her hand reaches up and tucks her hair back behind her ear. “I sometimes forget that you’re not him,” she admits. Her cheeks turn slightly red. “I look at you and see him, and I realize it would be very easy to just pretend you are him. But that wouldn’t be fair to either of us. And I know you understand that.”
“I do.” I nod with conviction, even as the feel of her skin under my fingers lingers.
“Superman was busy last night,” she says, changing the subject. “When did you get home?”
Home. Interesting word choice. Is this my home? I still think of it as his apartment. I’m not sure that I’m ready to treat it as mine. I almost feel his presence with me, and the frequent visions certainly don’t help.
“Yeah, after Kansas…I just needed to keep busy. I didn’t get back until about 6 a.m., actually,” I admit, giving her half a smile as I take the final bite of my bagel. She grimaces.
“Oh wow, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up? I should have waited until later.”
“It’s okay. I really can’t sleep in past seven anyway. No matter when I go to bed.” She finishes her last bite as well, and I stand, collect the plates from the table, and move to the sink to rinse them off. She follows me and then leans back against the counter and sips her coffee as I work. “Do you have any plans for today?” I ask casually as I dry my hands.
“I was thinking of meeting my parents for lunch, actually,” she says without enthusiasm. “They are both in town for a medical conference, and I haven’t seen them in a while.”
“A medical conference?” I step over to the table and pick up my coffee cup, but don’t sit.
“Yeah. Mother is a nurse practitioner, and Daddy is a neurosurgeon. They’re divorced, but they still work together,” she explains with a frown. “They…Daddy had an affair many years ago, and when Mother found out, well… Let’s just say it was quite unpleasant. Mother started drinking, and Daddy moved out. They divorced when I was 15. I don’t know how they manage to continue working together, but they do.”
Her voice is detached, indifferent, and she takes another sip of her coffee.
“That sounds rough,” I say. I have to resist the urge to wrap my arms around her and pull her into a comforting embrace. “Do they generally get along now?”
“Yeah. In fact, Lucy—my sister—she told me they have started dating again.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t picture it. To me, once that type of trust is broken, I’m afraid there would be no going back. But, if they are happy, then I’m happy for them.”
I nod and sip my coffee again.
“Oh, uh, do they know…about Superman?”
I don’t know why I didn’t think of the question sooner. But she immediately shakes her head.
“No. No one else knows besides me and the Kents,” she replies. “But they will have read the paper by now.” She pauses uncertainly and holds my gaze for a moment. She’s shown so much incredible strength in the last couple days that I forget how vulnerable she can be; her eyes betray that vulnerability now.
“Would you like me to come with you to lunch?” I propose quietly, lowering my eyes to my coffee cup.
I hear her heartrate increase slightly, and she shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Before she can respond, sounds of a police siren echo in my head as my superhearing activates.
“All units respond. Burglary in progress at Metropolis Supermall. Suspect is armed and considered dangerous. Last seen heading out of Mason’s Jewelers and toward the food court. One victim has been shot. Requesting an ambulance.” Lois watches me knowingly as I stand and set down my coffee cup.
“Think about it,” I say quickly. I step back from the table and spin into the familiar blue, red, and yellow suit. “There’s an incident at the mall. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
She nods. “Be careful.”
I smile and take off out the back door. I can get used to this, I decide. Sounds of more gunshots, however, sober my thoughts, and I pick up speed as I head toward the mall. No time to waste. Superman has a job to do.
12
Five hours later, Lois pulls her Jeep into an empty parking spot along the curb outside Tuscan Grille, a small Italian restaurant across from the Metropolis Convention Center. I swallow and straighten my tie as she turns the car off and grabs her purse from the back seat. Her eyes dart to the front of the restaurant, where an older couple stands chatting idly. The man is tall, with gray hair and a thick mustache, and the woman is about Lois’s height, but with lighter hair. The man places his arm around the woman’s shoulders and gives her a quick peck on the cheek.
“Is that them?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yep,” Lois answers. She shakes her head slightly. “I see it, but I don’t believe it. They haven’t looked that friendly in probably 15 years.”
“Oh, here, let me.” I jump out of the car and jog around to open her door. She eyes me with a funny half-smile and takes my outstretched hand.
“Such a gentleman, Mr. Kent,” she says with a laugh. She allows me to help her out of the Jeep, and I close the door behind her. She keeps a hold of my hand in hers. I know it is for show. And for support. But my skin burns warm where we touch. I wonder if she feels it too.
“Just doing the right thing,” I reply tightly. She looks up at me and smiles. A comfortable, friendly smile. Her eyes betray her though, with a hint of something else buried in their depths. I squeeze her hand reassuringly and flash her a big smile. Just one friend helping another friend. “Shall we?”
She nods, and we walk together up the steps in front of the restaurant.
“Sam and Ellen, or Dr. Lane and Ms. Lane?” I whisper quickly as we ascend the stairs. I feel her tense slightly.
“Um, whichever you prefer. Clark actually only met them once before, and it…wasn’t a wonderful experience for any of us.” She stops and turns toward me awkwardly, frowning. “I should have—”
“Lois! You made it! We were starting to worry.” Ellen Lane’s voice carries from ahead of us, and Lois turns sharply toward the voice, pasting a fake smile on her face.
“Mother! Daddy!”
She releases my hand and hurries ahead of me. My shoulders tighten, and I reach up and adjust my glasses anxiously. Given my experience with the Kents the day before, I really wish I knew what to expect with her parents. Oh well. Resigned, I trot up the remaining couple of stairs and pause uneasily a couple feet back as she hugs first her mother and then her father. Sam Lane is an imposing figure—tall and authoritative; his gruff expression shifts to me, and I nod and extend my hand.
“Dr. Lane. Good to see you again, sir,” I say formally. Politeness usually wins me points. Without hesitation, Sam reaches out and takes my hand firmly, and I easily reciprocate, adjusting my grip strength to meet his.
“Clark,” he says simply.
His eyes momentarily meet mine and then shift back to Lois and Ellen, and I get a strong sense of mistrust. I swallow hard. Lois’s arm is looped through her mother’s, and they step toward us. Ellen then reaches out and gives me a stiff hug.
“Clark, welcome home. What a trip you had, huh? I read your article this morning. Incredible, really.” She is more talkative than Sam, but the interaction is equally as forced.
“It was quite an experience,” I agree.
Lois moves back to my side and takes my hand again. Her warm touch is comforting, and I glance at her next to me and smile. Her deep brown eyes shift as they study mine.
I’ll be okay, Lois. Will you? I squeeze her hand supportively and give her a tiny nod to reassure her that I can deal with whatever happens. She bites her lip and looks back to her parents.
“Well, I don’t know about you all, but I’m starved. Should we go inside?”
Sam nods emphatically, loops his arm through Ellen’s, and leads the way into the restaurant. Despite the busy hour and the proximity to the crowded medical conference, we are seated right away, and I follow behind Lois, her hand still clasping mine, as we wind our way to an intimate, small table for four near the back of the restaurant. I step ahead and pull Lois’s chair out for her and then offer to help her take her coat off. She smiles a thank you at me and shrugs her coat off her shoulders. We both sit. Sam Lane watches me almost suspiciously, and I give him a tight smile and lower my eyes to the menu. Standard Italian fare.
The waiter, an older Italian gentleman with a heavy accent, takes our drink orders. Sam and Ellen both order Zinfandel, and Lois surprises me by ordering a Pinot Grigio. I stick to tea, and even that elicits a sideways glance from Sam.
“Designated driver,” I say with a weak smile. The truth is, I have never had so much as a sip of alcohol in my life. The car wreck that killed my parents involved a drunk driver, and although I doubt alcohol would even affect me, I have never had any desire to find out. But of course I don’t feel like sharing that information. Sam just shakes his head and looks back down at his menu. Lois reaches over from under the table and gives my knee a squeeze.
“So, Daddy, how long are you two in town? Lucy said until Wednesday,” Lois says. She shifts in her seat and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. I glance back down to the menu.
“Yes, until Wednesday morning,” Ellen answers. With a hint of pride in her voice, she adds, “Your father wanted to stay longer, but his assistant rescheduled a neuroendoscopy procedure for Thursday morning.”
“The conference is over Tuesday, and then we’re meeting Lucy for dinner on Tuesday night before we leave,” Sam adds. He nods cordially to the waiter, who brings our drinks, and then takes a long sip of his wine. “Clark, I’m interested in something you wrote about in your article, actually.”
I look up from my menu and straighten my glasses.
“What’s that, sir?”
“You mentioned the Kryptonian technology that uses nanoparticles to repair damaged tissue,” he explains, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Yessir. But it’s not only nanoparticles, sir—it’s a very advanced type of nanotechnology, where each individual particle and its location in the body can be controlled by the technician.” I hope I’m explaining this correctly. The other Clark’s notes had been thorough, including drawings and diagrams, but the technology is quite beyond anything we currently have on Earth.
“Could it be used—do they use it to target and eradicate cancer or other types of malignant cells?” he presses, his eyes boring into mine. “And can the particles cross over the blood-brain barrier?”
“From my understanding, sir, cancer is not a problem on New Krypton,” I reply, taking a quick sip of my tea. “…although I’m not sure if they eradicated it or if it was just never a disease that affected Kryptonians. However, yes, the nanoparticles they use can cross through the blood-brain barrier. In fact, I watched a procedure in which the physician repaired a traumatic brain injury, including damaged neurons within the brain and nerve cells within the spinal cord, simply by injecting these programmed nanotech particles into the patient’s bloodstream. It was completely non-invasive, and the patient recovered fully within about 10 minutes.” I surprise myself with how easily I talk about the details from the other Clark’s journals as though I were there sharing his experiences.
Sam’s expression is at first skeptical and then shifts to something more hostile.
“I don’t suppose you thought to bring some back with you,” he says, scowling.
Yep, apparently, I’ve done some great disservice to the people of Earth. I suppress a sigh.
“No, sir, unfortunately that was not possible.”
“Of course not,” he scoffs.
“Daddy, really, how was Clark supposed to—”
“I’m just saying, Lois, they have all this incredible technology, and it’s right there at his fingertips, and what did he bring back with him? Words and stories. Nothing concrete. Nothing tangible.” Sam takes another sip of his wine and shakes his head slightly.
“Daddy—”
“No, Lois, it’s okay. It’s actually a fair argument,” I interrupt. I steel my nerves a bit and meet Sam’s eyes, forcing myself not to recoil at the resentment he holds for me—or rather for the other Clark, I remind myself. Not me. “However, sir, if you had also seen the other applications of this technology, you would understand why we here on Earth are not ready to have such power.”
Sam eyes me doubtfully. “Go on.”
I nod and continue. “It’s true that their nanoparticles had amazing medical applications, but they also used this technology to build incredibly dangerous weapons. Bombs, drones, guns—all unlike anything we have here. And as easily as they could program the nanoparticles to repair and heal, they could also program them to kill and destroy, almost like a biological weapon.” I pause. I’d left a lot of details from the other Clark’s notebooks out of the article. Including these details. I lower my voice slightly. “One of the main weapons the Kryptonians used in battle resembled a simple double-edged sword. But they would coat the blade in a layer of pre-programmed nanoparticles, which would cause irreparable damage to the tissues surrounding the wound the sword created.”
Sam doesn’t respond right away. Beside me, Lois is very quiet, and I can almost feel her trembling. I want to kick myself. She doesn’t need to know all of this. I’d left the information out of the article for a reason.
“I see, well then…” Sam frowns.
“The technology is incredible, sir, it’s true,” I add. “However, the responsibility to use it for good—maybe we aren’t ready for that yet. The Kryptonians are a far more advanced people than us, and yet…” I allow myself to trail off rather than finish the statement. I think Sam understands my point. I reach over under the table and take Lois’s hand in mine. She is indeed shaking, and she looks up at me, tears in the corners of her eyes. However, she manages a tight smile and then pulls her hand away to take a sip of her wine. “So, you see, Dr. Lane, sir—”
I twist my head abruptly as my superhearing kicks in. Screams and crunching metal and frantic cries for help flood my mind. I quickly focus my hearing and locate the problem—an out-of-control bus speeding down 6th Street a few blocks away. Pedestrians and bus passengers are in immediate danger. Panicked, I glance at Lois. She recognizes my expression, but her eyes widen and then dart to her father. I’m no good at finding excuses to run off; I haven’t had to use them. I could always just leave, and no one would question me. But that obviously won’t work here.
“Uh, I think I left my—my wallet in the car. Yeah, um, I-I’ll be right back,” I stammer, standing up quickly. I make the mistake of looking at Sam before I head out. His eyes show disdain and disbelief, and he shakes his head. Lois, however, nods to me.
“Just hurry,” she says with a weak smile.
I’m thoroughly confused, but I nod and take off at a quick jog toward the front of the restaurant. Screams echo in my head. In these precious seconds lost, the bus has run through several stop lights, resulting in additional traffic accidents. I rush down the street until I reach an acceptably deserted alleyway and then launch up into the sky as I spin into the suit. Within another second, I reach the bus, apply appropriate pressure to the front grill, and gradually slow the bus to a stop. The passengers inside erupt in a chorus of cheers, and the bus driver claps his hands together and bows his head to me while saying, “Thank you Superman, thank God!” I quickly scan the passengers; no one is injured, and I speak briefly with the police officers arriving on the scene. Then, I shoot back up into the sky and toward the restaurant.
As I land and change back into my dress suit and slacks, my keen hearing picks up the conversation going on at our table, and I stop suddenly, my hand frozen on my tie.
“…you let him do this to you again.” Ellen Lane’s voice is agitated, angry. Sam pipes in,
“I told you that man was no good for you, Lois, but you wouldn’t listen. He can’t even stick around through a simple lunch.” “How can you trust he’ll be there when you need him? Believe me, Lois, I know a cheater when I see one. No offense, Sam,” Ellen adds. Lois’s heartbeat is erratic and fast.
“He just left his wallet in the car. Really, he’ll be right back,” she argues. But I hear defeat in her voice.
“That’s what he said last time too. And then he was gone for an entire hour! And, if you remember, he then had the gall to come to me later that day and ask my permission to propose to you!” Sam Lane is also furious, although he manages to keep his voice low to avoid attracting attention.
“Daddy, I—” Lois stops herself, and I hear the waiter ask if they are ready to order.
At least now I know why Sam Lane doesn’t like me—er, him—well, now me too. The other Clark must have gotten called away on Superman duties and not made it back quickly, which the Lanes interpreted as a lack of respect for their daughter. My jaw tightens. I guess having a secret identity is not always easier or better. I pull my wallet out of my pocket for good measure, jog up the steps to the restaurant, open the door, and hurry to the back of the restaurant. Holding the wallet up triumphantly, I smile and nod at the Lanes and take my seat next to Lois.
“Sorry about that,” I apologize quickly, stuffing my wallet back into my pocket and then picking up the menu. “Is it my turn to order?” I look up at Sam and Ellen, who both glower at me, and then to the waiter, who nods tentatively. I easily order in fluent Italian. “Eccellente, prendo il pollo al pesto, per favore. Grazie.”
The waiter looks surprised for a second and then smiles and replies, “Ah, tu parli italiano. Il pollo al pesto è una buona scelta, signore.”
I hand him my menu, and he turns and leaves the table. Silence follows. Next to me, Lois is tense. I can almost feel her shaking with guilt and sorrow. I realize she’s worried about me again. True, I do feel a little powerless in this situation; Sam and Ellen Lane have already made up their minds about Clark Kent. However, I hate that she’s upset, and I wish there was something I could do to help her feel better. Maybe I can try to make amends with her father, somehow.
I swallow and adjust my glasses in a familiar gesture of uncertainty. Raising my eyes, I see he is watching me with irritation as he sips his wine. My jaw clenches, but I hold his gaze. Would he appreciate boldness, or think me arrogant? I maintain eye contact for another moment. I recall an article from the other Clark’s portfolio reporting on increased rates of neurodegenerative diseases in the homeless population. Maybe if I can speak to something he is interested in, I could smooth things out a bit. I continue to hold his gaze.
“Dr. Lane, a quick question, if possible, for a follow-up article that I’m planning on a story I did last year,” I start. His scowl grows, but he nods slightly. “Maybe it’s out of your area of expertise, I’m not sure. Do you perform surgeries on patients with neurodegenerative diseases, particularly Alzheimer’s disease and Parkinson’s disease?”
“Actually, I do. I’m presenting tomorrow morning on a clinical trial we recently completed on the use of MRI-guided focused ultrasound neurosurgery in patients with Parkinson’s disease.” He is obviously surprised and curious, and he leans forward a bit at the table. Perfect.
“Excellent. Maybe you can help me then,” I say as I sit back a bit in my chair. Next to me, Lois visibly relaxes and shifts in her chair a bit to watch me as I speak. “In an article last year, I wrote about the increasing prevalence of Parkinson’s disease in the homeless population. Obviously, there are difficulties with properly treating these patients, who are less likely to seek out medical care. The APDA has outreach programs for homeless populations, but follow-up and compliance rates are low. Would you have any comments or advice on how to increase treatment compliance and whether surgical options could be effective if implemented for homeless individuals?”
“Interesting ideas, Clark. Let me think,” Sam replies, rubbing his chin.
I sneak a glance at Lois, who smiles at me tentatively, her eyebrows raised. I shrug slightly and smile back. Maybe this lunch is salvageable still. I sip my tea and listen intently as Sam begins a lengthy response to my complicated question.
13
Miles out to sea, the cruise ship ahead of me lurches sideways as water seeps in through the 10-foot crack in the hull. Passengers cry and huddle together in the pouring rain as they pile onto lifeboats on either side of the vessel. I fly by the bridge and wave to the captain, who breathes a sigh of relief, and I then dive down into the rough waters toward the broken hull. The blaring alarms are silenced as the captain’s voice announces over the loudspeaker,
“Please hold tight everyone, Superman is here!” And there is a collective calming of the passengers from aboard the ship.
I reach the crack and survey the damage, which is extensive. I place my hands against the sharp, rough metal of the hull and flatten out the edges of the crack. I then focus my heat vision to weld the metal back together, creating a strong new seam. Water boils around me as I work, bubbles forming and rising up to the surface. I double check the seam; it seems to be holding strong. The storm above, however, is intensifying, and I worry the ship and its hundreds of passengers are still in danger. I fly back up to the surface. Despite its size, the cruise ship is being tossed around in the huge waves, and the crews are now hurriedly ushering the passengers back into the interior of the ship, out of the rain, wind, and lightning. I fly back to the bridge and land lightly on the deck outside. The captain motions me in as he and his co-captain work to try to keep the ship on course.
“Captain, good evening, sir,” I say formally, stepping in the room with my arms crossed over my chest.
“Superman, you have no idea how glad we are to see you,” he responds, leaving the control panels and reaching out to shake my hand.
I reciprocate the gesture with a nod and then look out toward the storm ahead.
“I sealed the crack in the hull. However, I’m quite concerned about this storm,” I explain. As if to illustrate my point, a bolt of lightning strikes the open ocean out in front of us, followed seconds later by a deafening crack of thunder. The ship again lurches as another huge wave hits, this one sending sprays of salt water onto the deck below us. “Can I assist you to your next port, so the damage to the ship can be looked at, and the water in the hull can be drained?”
“You can do that? Yes, please,” he responds quickly. He looks back to his co-captain for a moment, who nods vigorously, and then to me again. “We were headed to Boston as our next port of call; however, Metropolis is much closer, just a few miles.”
“Metropolis it is then,” I agree. “I’ll make the trip as smooth as I can. However, if you can make an announcement that all of the passengers please take a seat, if possible, I would appreciate it.”
“Good idea, Superman. Right away.” He picks up a phone and dials a number. A second later, his voice can be heard over the loudspeaker. “Good evening again, everyone…”
I nod, turn toward the doorway, and launch myself back out into the storm. Pounding rain, lightning, and strong winds continue to rock the ship. As I dive back down into the frigid waters, I scan the ship’s frame and quickly locate the strongest part of the hull. I carefully place my hands on the bottom of the ship and press upwards slowly, monitoring the surrounding parts of the ship and frame to ensure it holds. The ship creaks and groans, but does not break, and I continue pushing upwards until I am holding the ship, still mostly level, but up over my head and just a few feet above the crashing waves. I fly relatively slowly and bank left in a wide arc until I am heading back toward Metropolis. I carefully focus my hearing into the ship; the passengers and crew are unusually quiet as the captain continues announcing instructions and updates over the loudspeaker.
“We are heading southwest now at about 60 knots, and we should arrive to port in Metropolis within only a couple minutes. Thank you, everyone, for your cooperation. Please continue to stay seated until we have reached the port. Thank you again.” The port comes into view, and I slow as I bring the huge ship closer to land.
“Superman, if you can hear me, we are cleared to dock at Pier 3,” the captain says from the bridge. I scan the port and see an emergency crew waving me down from Pier 3. The wind and waves have calmed a bit, so I gradually turn toward Pier 3 and lower the ship down into the water. Several minutes later, after I’ve carefully followed the captain’s instructions, the ship is safely docked, and I emerge from under the water to applause of passengers gathered on the deck and media, spectators, and emergency crews assembled at the pier. I nod briefly and wave, then head back to the bridge to check in with the captain.
“Superman,” he greets, rushing over to me to shake my hand again. “On behalf of myself and the entire crew, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” I reply politely.
I nod to him and the co-captain, who is on a phone call, and I head out, flying up and over the brightly lit city. Everything is quiet for a Sunday evening in Metropolis, and I find myself drifting a bit aimlessly high up above the city, focusing my hearing on the many sounds of people moving about their lives. I fly up a bit higher and allow my hearing to extend out farther. To New York, Washington D.C., Dallas, San Francisco, Tokyo, London, Sydney, Moscow, Istanbul, Baghdad. The world is loud. As loud as mine was when I first became Superman.
“They have forgotten hope,” a voice echoes in my head.
His voice, I realize.
I feel him there with me—quite an odd sensation, and too difficult to describe. As I stare down at the city, I almost see another image, similar yet different, of another night from another pair of super eyes. I sense the protectiveness he felt toward this city, this Earth. The feeling of his presence soon fades, however, and I’m alone, still floating aimlessly hundreds of feet in the air.
I shift my focus again to outside Metropolis. The heavy warfare in the Middle East bothers me, and I focus on gunfire and explosions coming from Aleppo, a highly populated city in Syria. Screams of panicked civilians reach my ears. I hesitate. Interfering with political and military fighting has always been a tricky topic for me. But civilians and children are in danger, and that’s unacceptable, regardless of the military conflict.
My decision made, I race off around the globe on my next super feat for the evening. At least if I keep myself busy, I won’t have time to worry about going to listen to Sam Lane speak at the medical conference tomorrow morning and then heading to work at the Daily Planet with Lois in the afternoon. I increase my speed more as another explosion rocks the city, accompanied by more screaming and confusion. And I hope I can do a little bit of good—bring some hope back to this desperate world that he so loved.
I feel him with me again, and this time, his presence is surrounded by a bright light and warmth.
“Help them all,” he tells me.
“Help them all.” 
