by Greg Cox
Bane watched the Bat escape into the night.
Batman put a safe distance between themselves and Selina’s attackers before landing the Bat on the empty helipad of a midtown skyscraper. An EMP pulse took out any inconvenient lights and security cameras, ensuring their privacy for the moment.
He wanted to know what she had been up to at Daggett’s penthouse—and why Bane’s men were after her.
The canopy slid open above them, letting in the crisp night air. Selina sprang from the passenger seat.
“See you around,” she said breezily.
He followed her onto the roof, where he took a moment to admire her skintight outfit—which struck him as both practical and flattering. He of all people had to appreciate a flair for the dramatic.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“I had it under control,” she insisted.
He disagreed.
“Those weren’t street thugs,” he asserted grimly. “They were trained killers.” He fixed his dark eyes on her. “I saved your life. In return, I need to know what you did with Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints.”
She looked him over thoughtfully, putting the pieces together.
“Wayne wasn’t kidding about a ‘powerful friend.’” She hesitated before coming clean. “I sold his prints to Daggett—for something that probably doesn’t exist.”
He caught a note of bitterness in her voice.
“I doubt many people get the better of you,” he said. But she shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“Hey, when a girl’s desperate—”
“What were they going to do with them?” he persisted. He was careful to use his “Batman growl.” She seemed to have a way of putting two-and-two together, and he didn’t want her to recognize him— especially after that kiss.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, “but Daggett seemed pretty interested in that mess at the stock exchange.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. He already knew there was a link between Daggett and Bane—forged by the West African coup—but what exactly were they trying to accomplish? And why had they needed Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints?
A police chopper swept past overhead, continuing the manhunt. Batman stepped back into the shadows, evading its searchlight until the aircraft had passed. Then he turned back to continue the questioning.
But she was gone.
“Miss Kyle?”
She had disappeared, as silently as a cat.
Batman grunted. The irony of the situation did not escape him.
“So that’s what that feels like.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Truth to tell, Alfred had never liked the Batcave. He found it dank, gloomy, unsanitary, difficult to dust, and more than a little depressing.
Still, Master Bruce had spent a fortune converting the ancient caverns—which had once been a stop on the Underground Railroad—into a state-of-the-art forensic laboratory, garage, armory, and communications center. So it would be foolish not to avail oneself of the cave’s sophisticated technology, even if it meant keeping company with a plague of winged rodents.
At least that’s what he told himself.
Alfred was seated at the computer, studying captured security footage of the assault on the stock exchange, when a booming roar and the glare of high-intensity landing lights penetrated the waterfall that hid the mouth of the cave. A bright white glow shone through the curtain of water, heralding the arrival of Bruce’s newest toy.
A wet spray sprinkled Alfred’s face as, rotors spinning, the Bat flew into the cave. A pair of slate cubes rose to form a landing pad. The Bat touched down on the cubes.
The canopy opened and Batman emerged from the cockpit. Alfred was relieved to see that he was still in one piece, and in no immediate need of first aid, despite being out of commission for eight long years. He had been worried about that.
“Very inconspicuous,” the butler observed, brushing water from his suit. “Shall I tell the neighbors that you got yourself a new leaf blower?”
Batman shed his cape and cowl, becoming Bruce Wayne once more.
“We bought all the neighbors.”
So we did, Alfred recalled. He took Bruce’s cloak as they walked away from Lucius Fox’s latest contribution to “the cause.” The Bat was an impressive aircraft, he had to admit. Perhaps too impressive.
“From the look of the television coverage, you seem to have your taste for wanton destruction back.”
Bruce ignored the gibe. He plucked a USB drive from his Utility Belt.
“I retrieved this.”
“Shouldn’t the police be gathering the evidence?” Alfred suggested.
“They don’t have the tools to analyze it.”
Alfred glanced around at a high-tech apparatus filling the cave. It was enough to make the FBI envious.
“They would if you gave it to them.” But Bruce shook his head.
“One man’s tool is another man’s weapon.”
“In your mind, perhaps,” Alfred said. “But there aren’t many things that you couldn’t turn into a weapon.”
“Alfred, enough,” Bruce said impatiently. “The police weren’t getting it done.”
“Perhaps they would have,” the butler persisted, “if you hadn’t made a sideshow of yourself.”
Bruce refused to even consider the possibility.
“Perhaps you’re just upset that you were wrong.”
Alfred looked puzzled.
“Wrong?”
“You thought I didn’t have it in me anymore,” Bruce said.
Alfred returned the cape and cowl to the closet where they belonged. He wished he could lock them away for good.
“You don’t,” he said. “You led a bloated, overconfident police force on a merry chase with some fancy new toys from Fox.” He called Bruce’s attention to the ghastly security footage on the main monitor. “What about when you come up against him. What then?”
On the screen, Bane murdered a roomful of security guards with terrifying speed and brutality. His lethally effective fighting technique was eerily similar to Batman’s, but much more final. Bruce’s jaw tightened as he contemplated the footage.
“I’ll fight harder,” he said. “Like I always have.”
“When you had something to fight for,” Alfred argued. “What are you fighting for now? Not your life.”
Bruce frowned and moved to switch off the screen. Alfred stopped him.
“Take a good look,” the butler said. “At his speed, his ferocity, his training. I see the power of belief…of the fanatic. I see the League of Shadows resurgent.”
Bruce stared at Bane.
“You said he was excommunicated.”
“By Rā’s al Ghūl,” Alfred said. “Who leads them now?”
“Rā’s al Ghūl was the League of Shadows,” Bruce insisted. “And I beat him.” He sat down at the computer and killed the security footage. “Bane’s just a mercenary, and we have to find out what he’s up to.” He plugged the USB into the computer, then pecked at the keyboard and streams of text scrolled across the screen. He scrutinized the data.
“Trades of some kind,” he realized. “Coded.”
The text vanished, replaced by a scanned image of a thumbprint. Bruce scowled.
“Is that—?” Alfred began.
“Mine,” Bruce confirmed. “Courtesy of Selina Kyle.” He’d tell Alfred about his run-in with Catwoman later. Right now he had more pressing concerns. He rose from the computer and unplugged the USB drive.
“Get this to Fox,” he instructed. “He can crack the code and tell us what trades they were executing.”
Alfred took the USB and left the cave. Bruce changed into his civilian garb and followed him up to the manor. He found the butler in the main hall, at the foot of the grand stairway. He was already on his way out.
“I’ll get this to Fox,” Alfred said gravely. “But no more.” Something in the older man’s tone got Bruce’s attention. He turned away from the stairs and looked t
oward Alfred.
“I’ve sewn you up and set your bones,” the butler continued, “but I won’t bury you.
“I’ve buried enough members of the Wayne family.”
Is he serious? Bruce wondered. Alfred was the one person who had never given up on him. “You’d abandon me?” he said quietly.
“You see only one end to your story,” Alfred said. “Leaving is all I have left to make you understand. You aren’t Batman anymore. You have to find another way.”
There is no other way, Bruce thought. Not for me. Not anymore.
“You used to talking about finishing,” Alfred reminded him. “About life beyond that awful cave.”
Bruce shook his head. That dream had ended eight years ago.
“Rachel died knowing that we’d decided to be together,” he said bitterly. “That was my life beyond the cave, so I can’t just move on. She didn’t. She couldn’t.”
Because Batman failed to save her.
“What if she had?” Alfred asked. “What if she wasn’t intending to make a life with you?”
Bruce didn’t see the point in speculating.
“She was,” he said. “I can’t change that.”
Alfred shifted uncomfortably, and a strange look came over his face, as if he was wrestling with something.
“What if,” he said finally, “she’d written a letter? Explaining that she’d chosen Harvey Dent over you.” Alfred sighed wearily, as though releasing a heavy load. “And what if, to spare you pain, I’d burnt that letter?” Realization dawned, and Bruce stared in shock. He felt his entire world—everything he’d believed for the last eight years—come apart beneath him.
“Why would you say such a thing?” he asked.
“Because I have to make you understand,” Alfred said. “Because you’re as precious to me as you were to your own mother and father, and I swore to them that I would protect you…and I haven’t.”
“You’re lying,” Bruce accused him.
“I’ve never lied to you,” he replied. “Except when I burned Rachel’s letter.”
The hell of it was, Bruce believed him.
A cold fury erupted inside him, very different from the righteous anger he had directed at crime and criminals for so long. This was much more personal.
“How dare you use Rachel to stop me?” he growled.
“I’m using the truth, Master Bruce. Maybe it’s time we all stopped trying to outsmart the truth, and just let it have its day.” He gazed at Bruce sadly. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Bruce rasped. “You expect to destroy my world, then shake hands?”
“No,” Alfred said. “I know what this means.” But Bruce forced him to say it.
“What does it mean, Alfred?”
“It means your hatred. It means losing the person I’ve cared for since I first heard his cries echo through this house.” He paused. “But it might also mean saving your life. And that is more important.”
Bruce glared at him. Calmly, coldly, he said the worst thing he could say.
“Goodbye, Alfred.”
The butler nodded, looking older and more tired than he had just moments ago. His shoulders slumped.
“Goodbye, Bruce.”
Bruce turned his back and marched up the stairs.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The doorbell woke him. Bruce rolled over in bed, waiting for Alfred to answer it.
Then he remembered.
He rose and threw on a dressing gown. No breakfast awaited him, and the house somehow seemed colder than it had before. Moving down the corridor toward the front, he called out tentatively.
“Alfred?”
The answering silence confirmed that last night had really happened. Bruce’s face hardened. Knotting his robe shut, he hurried down the stairs and threw open the door.
Lucius Fox gazed at him with surprise.
“Answering your own door?”
“Yes,” Bruce said tersely. He didn’t feel like explaining. “Could you decode the trades on that drive?”
Instead of answering, Fox handed him the morning paper. The front page headline was in huge type.
BATMAN BACK TO FOIL OR MASTERMIND STOCK RAID
The headline was accompanied by a blurry photo of the Bat in flight. A sidebar displayed a chronology of Batman’s career, beginning with his capture of mobster Carmine Falcone, so many years ago.
“I didn’t need to,” Fox said. “Page three.”
Puzzled, Bruce flipped past the coverage on Batman’s alleged return until he stumbled onto another, significantly smaller headline.
WAYNE DOUBLES DOWN—AND LOSES
Bruce scanned the article in growing dismay.
“It seems you made a series of large put options on the futures exchange. Verified by thumb print.” Fox shook his head grimly. “The options expired at midnight last night.”
Bruce looked up from the paper, reeling from the news. He had always preferred crime-fighting to high finance, but he grasped the implications of what he had just read. And the consequences were devastating.
“Long term, we may be able to prove fraud,” Fox said, spelling it out. “But for now…you’re completely broke. And Wayne Enterprises is about to fall into the hands of John Daggett.”
“The weapons.” Bruce instantly zeroed in on what mattered most. “We can’t let Daggett get his hands on Applied Sciences.”
“Applied Sciences is shut up tight and off the books,” Fox assured him. “But the energy project is a different story.”
Then it sunk in, that it was the worst of all possible worst-case scenarios—the prospect of a man like John Daggett, with his connections to Bane, taking control of the mothballed project.
Bruce realized he needed help.
“Miranda Tate,” he said, thinking aloud. “We need to convince the board to get behind her, instead of Daggett.” He knew what that meant. “Let’s show her the reactor.”
Fox was way ahead of him.
“We’re meeting her in thirty-five minutes,” he said. “You better get dressed.”
The recycling plant was located across the river from Gotham. Acres of abandoned scrap metal, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, enjoyed a scenic view of the city’s imposing skyline. Gulls and pigeons scavenged in the garbage. Bins of discarded car batteries and electronics equipment waited to be disposed of. Rust ate away at the accumulated refuse.
Miranda Tate glanced around dubiously as Fox led her from the car. She stepped lightly amidst the piles of junk, avoiding a greasy puddle.
“You brought me out here to show me a rubbish dump, Mr. Fox?” she said as he unlocked the front gate. Then he turned.
“Bear with me, Miss Tate.”
A derelict-looking portacabin was hidden deep within the junkyard, behind towering heaps of scrap metal. Nothing but a glorified aluminum shed, with poorly maintained siding, the one-story building hardly seemed worth her time.
Wearing a cryptic smile, Fox invited her inside.
“Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times,” he commented.
An empty office was tucked away inside the cabin. Dust covered the desk and file cabinets. A pinup calendar on the wall was more than a year out-ofdate. Beat-up office equipment looked as if it belonged in the heaps of recyclables outside. Fox flipped a concealed switch beneath the desk and, all at once, the entire office turned into an elevator, sinking into the floor. The room tilted like a funhouse ride as it slid diagonally into a massive concrete tunnel that angled beneath the junkyard and toward the river.
Miranda gasped out loud. Her eyes widened in excitement.
“This is it, isn’t it?” he asked. Fox nodded.
“The reactor is beneath the river, so it can be instantly flooded in the event of a security breach.”
“Is Bruce Wayne really that paranoid?” she asked.
Fox chuckled.
“I’m going to plead the Fifth on that one,” he said.
The elevator came to a stop deep bene
ath the river. Marveling at the elaborate security, she stepped out of the “office,” only to find Bruce Wayne waiting for them in a cavernous underground complex that was as large and impressive as the ugly junkyard was not. She noted that he was no longer using his cane.
“I thought you might like to see what your investment built,” he said.
At the center of the hangar-sized complex was a black steel sphere, at least five feet in diameter, girded by segmented steel rings that she quickly identified as powerful electromagnets. Blinking green lights and gauges were embedded in the surface of the sphere. Diagonal steel trusses supported the core assembly, suspending it several feet above the floor. An instrument panel was located at the base of the left-hand buttress.
Drainage from the river flowed through wide concrete troughs in the floor.
At last, Miranda thought. She savored the sight of the revolutionary fusion reactor. “No radiation, no fossil fuels,” she said. “Free, clean energy for an entire city.”
“If it worked,” Bruce said. “It doesn’t.” He flipped a switch on the control panel. The core hummed to life, glowing brightly from within. Lit gauges registered a sudden surge of energy.
Then the device went cold. The gauges dropped back to zero.
“Ignition, yes,” he stated. “But no chain reaction.”
She didn’t believe him.
“You’ve built a lot of security around a damp squib.”
He gazed at her stonily, but remained silent. She thought she understood his reticence.
“About three years ago, a Russian scientist published a paper on weaponized fusion reactions,” she commented. “One week later, your reactor started developing problems.” You don’t have to be a nuclear physicist to see a connection, she mused. “I think your machine works.”
Wayne peered at her intently.
“Miranda, if it were operational, the danger to Gotham would be too great.”
“Would it make you feel any better,” she asked, “to know that the Russian scientist died in a plane crash six months ago?”
This did not seem to reassure him.
“Someone else will work out what Dr. Pavel did,” he argued. “Someone else will figure out how to turn this power source into a nuclear weapon.”
