by Peter David
Bruce Wayne was jostled from his thoughts by a slight dip in the helicopter’s angle. He looked out the right window and saw the glowing sign that topped the towering headquarters of Wayne Enterprises.
“There’s home,” he murmured.
“Home?” said the pilot. “With a mansion like you got, Mr. Wayne, you think of an office building as home?”
“Actually, I guess not, Rudy,” said Wayne after a moment’s thought.
“I’m not surprised. Actually, with all the houses you got across the world, and offices and stuff . . . guess it’s hard to imagine where you’d actually consider home.”
An image fluttered across Bruce’s mind, of a dark cave and a black costume.
“Very hard to imagine,” he agreed.
“Isn’t it incredible!” Edward Nygma said for what seemed the three hundredth time that day, leaning out of his cubicle and addressing a passing co-worker. The co-worker, who’d been the recipient of this particular piece of enthusiasm a mere twenty times since 10:00 A.M. barely nodded before walking quickly past.
“Bruce Wayne! Here!” continued Edward as if his co-worker was still around, hanging on his every word. He retreated back into his cubicle, which was a clutter of computer parts and scattered paper. And whatever space was left over was occupied by puzzles: Rubik’s cubes, assorted games, dozens of puzzle books published by an outfit who had a green-suited sort of “mascot” called “The Guesser” on all their publications. The Guesser was always poised with his finger pointed at the reader, demanding, “Have you got what it takes?”
Edward Nygma always had what it took. The problem was, he was the only one who knew it. But that was going to be changing very, very soon.
And the man who was going to be changing it was headed his way.
Edward would certainly know him when he saw him. He’d spent enough time anticipating the moment, after all. For on the opposite wall of his cubicle was something that could only be considered a “shrine” to Bruce Wayne. There was an assortment of photographs, articles, magazine covers. He had been fairly scrupulous throughout the years.
He’d even included, down and to the right, the first article, the very first. It was old and stiff and there were still bloodstains on the face of the young man staring into the camera.
Nygma had it all planned out. Finally he was going to be meeting Bruce Wayne face-to-face, and he had every moment of the encounter scripted. He knew what he would say and, more important, he knew exactly what Bruce would say. He’d rehearsed it to perfection in his mind for weeks upon months, and there was no way that there could be any possible deviation. He simply knew Bruce Wayne far too well to have miscalculated.
Someone else was walking past now, and was doing so very quickly. But it wasn’t fast enough. Edward was on his feet immediately, calling, “Mr. Stickley!”
Fred Stickley, who wore his state of harassment with as much familiarity as other people wore backward baseball caps, stopped in his tracks. Without looking, he said, “Yessss . . . Edward . . .”
“When are you planning to bring my project up to Mr. Wayne?” he asked. His adult face still had that same youthful impishness that had gotten him into major trouble as a kid. But there was an additional bit of barely controlled zeal that had been present ever since he’d come out of the coma, the coma that he’d been in for three weeks after he’d cracked his head on the curbside—the coma that he’d come to think of as his cocoon time, his chrysalis period, before emerging into the world with a clear and unfettered vision.
His greatest frustration was that there were so many people out there who didn’t share that vision. He was constantly trying to rein himself in wherever and whenever he encountered someone like that.
With Stickley, he had to rein himself in quite a lot.
Stickley, for his part, felt absolutely no need to. “Mr. Nygma,” he snapped, “what part of ‘no’ were you unable to grasp?”
Nygma paused a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then began, “You don’t understand . . .”
But Stickley was already shoving a finger into Nygma’s face. “No, you don’t understand, I, your department head, have scotched this project. That is my prerogative.” Then he gained control of himself and slowly lowered his hand, not wanting to work himself up into a lather on the day of Wayne’s scheduled visit. He tried to sound pleasant. “Edward . . . listen . . . you do outstanding work on the projects you’ve been given. But the stuff you’ve developed on your own, it’s . . .”
“Over the top? Pushing the envelope? Out there?”
Stickley had been going to simply say “crazy,” but instead he nodded amenably. “All those.”
Nygma grabbed him by the shoulders, his voice almost shaking with intensity. “But don’t you see? That’s the point! You think when they pointed at bread mold and said, ‘Hey! Here’s a wild thought: Penicillin!’ How many people said, ‘That’s over the top!’ But how many others had the foresight, the intelligence and, I might add”—and he adjusted Stickley’s necktie—“the stunning fashion sense, to see the possibilities?”
Stickley’s patience was running out fast. “Edward . . . let me make this as clear and concise as I can. This . . . mind creation of yours . . . the answer is no. No, okay? I can’t make it clearer than that. I can’t put a fine enough point on it. I can’t think of a word with fewer syllables to put it across. The answer is no.”
Nygma’s mouth drew into a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Well,” he said in a soft and unpleasant whisper, “why don’t we let Mr. Wayne decide that for himself?”
“Because he hired me to make these decisions!” Stickley said, his voice louder than he would have liked. “You will not ask Mr. Wayne about this! No . . . that’s insufficient. You will not speak to Mr. Wayne at all, do you understand? Do you?!”
As Stickley’s rage had built, Edward had grown calmer and calmer . . . unnaturally so, in fact. He said one word, overenunciating every syllable:
“Perfectly.”
Stickley nodded just once, which was all he trusted himself to do, and then he moved off toward his office.
Edward, meantime, turned and looked out the large window at the end of the hallway. He saw a helicopter approaching the building, descending toward the roof.
He knew precisely who was in the ’copter. And he knew with equal certainty that the events of the next couple of hours were destined. It’s why he hadn’t bothered to argue with Stickley over the project. He knew that very soon, Stickley’s opinions . . . and, very possibly, Stickley himself . . . would be moot.
Bruce Wayne would be descending from on high, and he would see Edward’s brilliance firsthand. He would point to Edward and raise him up to his social circles, and heap rewards and friendship upon him.
And not even a platoon of Stickleys could stop it from happening. Of that simple fact, Edward had no doubt at all.
Bruce Wayne’s office was filled with ornately carved woodwork and simple yet elegantly styled furniture. The only sign of life in it was a telephone array with several lines blinking. Otherwise it sat empty, waiting and silent. It didn’t have to wait for long.
The great doors swung inward and the room was filled with noise and conversation, all of it overlapping. Bruce Wayne entered, followed by his secretary Margaret, his CEO, Lucius Fox, and a bevy of aides that seemed to have sprung up like mushrooms. In a slightly distracted frame of mind, Bruce found himself looking at some of these people and trying to remember who they were and what kind of function they served, other than to barrage him with advisories and questions. In fact, it was entirely possible they served no other function.
Margaret, reading off a clipboard, said “The president called. You left your tennis racket at the White House. He wanted me to assure you the arms ban will stay on the bill.”
As she spoke she crossed quickly to the phone bank. She plugged an earphone into her ear, getting new information even as she finished telling Wayne about the arms ban. Then, without missing
a beat, she continued, “The Japanese prime minister again. On two. Holding.”
There was a moment of breath taken, and Fox jumped in. “Five minutes to your inspection of the electronics division, sir.”
The aides converged. One said, “We need these authorizations yesterday” while the other informed him, with increasing urgency while looking at a watch, “Tokyo’s closing, sir. The LexCorp stock . . .”
But they had spoken simultaneously. It seemed impossible that, even with full concentration, Wayne could have been following the conversation. To make matters trickier, he had taken a stack of contracts from one of the aides and was signing them quickly, mowing through them like a thresher through wheat.
Apparently oblivious of any distractions, Margaret piped up, “Gossip Gerty from ‘Good Morning Gotham’ again. Holding. Must know who you’re taking to the charity circus.”
Bruce waved off the contract-holding aide with an unhurried, “The rest can wait,” and then turned to the other and informed him, “Tokyo’s not closing for fifty-eight seconds,” as if that supposedly huge time margin gave him an eternity of maneuverability.
Meantime two more aides had staggered in with a large wooden crate. They finished prying it open and wordlessly held up the contents to Wayne. It was an oil painting of a man in full body armor, backed by a battlefield spent by war.
Fox took one look at it and shuddered inwardly. But it wasn’t his money on the line. He turned to Wayne and said, “The painting you saw in the catalog, sir. The purchase price is two million dollars.”
Bruce stepped back to get a better view of it, and almost bumped into an aide who said brightly, “The circus benefit committee would like you to make a speech, sir.”
Wayne moved to the side so as not to trample the aide and found himself bumping up against the phone bank. Margaret was looking up at him imploringly and he sighed. He pointed at the phones. “Who’s who?”
“Prime Minister Kikuchi on two. Gossip Gerty from ‘Good Morning Gotham’ on one.”
He picked up the receiver and said, “Hi, gorgeous.” Then a moment of silence passed, and his cheeks flushed just slightly as he said, “Oh. Prime Minister.”
Margaret looked at the phone lines in a accusatory fashion. They glowed at her unabashed.
In the meantime, Bruce had pushed his way past the momentary embarrassment, “Ogenki des’ka? Senjitsuwa . . . jidou-kikin eno difu . . . arigato gozaemashta.” Then he laughed as the prime minister wished him well with whoever “gorgeous” turned out to be. “See you on the golf course. Sayonara.”
“Please, sir. The stocks,” implored one of the aides as if his life hung in the balance.
Bruce started to address him, but then paused a moment to say to Margaret, “Cancel my dinner tonight, Margaret. Roses, apologies to Ms. Gotham.”
“You mean Ms. January?”
“Right.” Then he turned and pointed virtually at random to assorted aides and said, “No speeches . . . buy . . . sell.” He paused a moment, hoped that he hadn’t just snapped orders that would send him spiraling into bankruptcy, and then turned to Fox and said, “Let’s start that inspection.”
But before he could take a step in the direction of the door, the clamoring for his time rose again like the Red Sea converging on the Egyptians.
“Mr. Wayne . . .”
“One more contract.”
“The takeover bids—
“The circus—”
Bruce raised his hands and called out, “Stop!”
Dead silence. It was like the old child’s game of “1-2-3 Red light!” They all froze in midmotion, even midsentence. “Let’s all just take a deep breath, okay?” As one, they nodded.
“Good,” he said and then, as they all waited for him to decide which immediately pressing problem should be addressed first, he instead turned and walked out of the office. “I gotta give myself a raise,” he muttered to himself. The comment was not heard, of course, buried under the concerted chattering and bellowing of his aides as they followed him out begging for just a moment of his time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Wayne was moved to think of Hansel and Gretel, leaving behind a trail of bread crumbs so that they wouldn’t get lost. As he toured the electronics division of Wayne Enterprises, he was able to take comfort in the fact that he’d never had to resort to such measures. He’d always have a line of aides and assistants and assistant aides trailing behind him.
Walking slightly ahead of him was Stickley, the manager. A good man, solid worker, if not always inspired and even a bit of a fussbudget. Then again, that’s the sort of person who could get the job done.
“Your inspections are a departmental highlight.”
Bruce laughed lightly. “Really? You all need to get out more,” he said in a slightly self-deprecating manner. That, of course, was his prerogative. When you’re the boss and powerful, you could take yourself down a peg every now and then, always confident that an employee would laugh and say, “Very amusing, Mr. Wayne.”
All the aides laughed, and Stickley said, “Very amusing, Mr. Wayne.”
Wayne slowed and stopped next to a mechanized pedestal that was slowly turning. Atop it was the metal model of a sleek new airplane. He looked at Stickley questioningly. “We should be further along than this, shouldn’t we?” he asked.
Stickley’s head bobbed up and down. “The design appears flawless on paper, sir. But we can’t achieve an antigravity field. The model plane should float but it doesn’t.”
He lifted the plane and started walking with it, turning it over and over in his hands, and began making minute adjustments. Mildly puzzled, he said, “Hmmm. Funny. Should work.” He paused and then asked, “Anybody try kicking it?”
Everyone laughed.
Being the boss had its moments.
In his cubicle, Edward Nygma was busily twisting one of the Rubik’s cubes. He was murmuring to himself, “We’ll probably be dining at Wayne Manor together.” He envisioned Bruce sitting across from him, and began to launch into a narrative. “Bruce, could you pass the gravy boat? What’s that? I forgot, you have people who do that, don’t you?” He laughed and then in pleased surprise, “Yes. Yes. A party in my honor? I should have rented a tuxedo. What?” he couldn’t believe it, “One of yours, Bruce?” He gave it a moment’s thought and then shrugged. “Why not? We are the same size.”
Then he heard something. It was a group heading his way. Chatting and someone would say something, and then they’d all laugh. “Oh my God. It’s him,” he whispered.
Without hesitation he darted out into the hallway just as the group was approaching from the other direction. Stickley saw Nygma coming, and put a quick hand on Wayne’s elbow. Stickley fired Edward an angry glance but kept his voice pleasant as he said, “Well, Mr. Wayne, on to R&D?”
No chance.
Wayne turned to Stickley but suddenly his attention was completely pulled to Edward, who had thrust himself squarely in their path. Edward saw the consternation in Stickley’s eyes. Good. Excellent, in fact. Now Stickley was going to see something.
Edward seized Wayne’s hand in a viselike grip and started pumping it firmly. Wayne was politely puzzled as he asked, “Mr. . . . ?”
“Bruce Wayne. In the flesh,” said Edward, still not quite believing that the moment was happening. He was like a raw, open wound, his emotions laid bare.
Stickley looked as if he were going to have a cerebral hemorrhage.
Bruce smiled easily and said, “No. That’s me. And you are?”
At first Edward didn’t realize what Bruce was talking about, and then he ran through his mind what he had just said to Wayne. He winced in chagrin. A classic screwup like that hadn’t been part of the plan. But he pressed forward. After all, in the grand scheme of things . . . in the fabulous, sweeping intertwining destinies of Bruce Wayne and Edward Nygma, such a slip would not even rate a footnote. “Nygma. Edward. Edward Nygma. You hired me. Personally. Just like I tell everyone.”
He
saw Bruce’s politely puzzled expression and amended, “Well, we’ve never actually met, but your name was on the hire slip. I have it framed.”
He still hadn’t let go of Bruce’s hand. Bruce said gamely, “I’m gonna need that hand back, Ed.”
“What? Ah yes. Of course. I’m sorry! It’s just that . . .” He took a deep breath and plunged in. “You’re my idol. And some people have been trying to keep us apart.”
Bruce looked at Stickley, who had gone dead white. Still, this fervent fellow clearly had something particular to discuss.
Go on, Edward silently urged. This is where you ask me what’s on my mind . . . go on . . . go . . .
“So, Mr. Nygma, what’s on your mind?”
Bingo!
“Precisely!” declared Edward, launching into a spiel that he had been preparing for two months, every day, every night. “What’s on all our minds? Brain waves. The future of Wayne Enterprises is brain waves.”
Brain waves, Edward? Why . . . tell me more! Although, of course, Bruce Wayne would already have grasped the importance of the sentence. Indeed, he might already have figured out just where Edward was going with it. Still, Edward was willing to wait for that inevitable demand of Tell me more!
He waited. Patiently.
Wayne was staring at him. At him . . . and then back to Stickley.
Bruce, you’re missing your cue, thought Edward, smile frozen firmly in place. If you wait too long, Stickley’s going to simper and . . .
“I really do apologize, Mr. Wayne. I personally terminated his project this morning . . .”
This wouldn’t do. It simply wouldn’t. So Bruce had missed a cue, a single line. Again, no big deal in the grand scheme of things. Grasping Wayne by the elbow, Edward pulled him over to his cubicle. He gestured toward the device that covered his desktop, looking for all the world as if it had been designed by Rube Goldberg. There was a small TV monitor, jury-rigged to transceivers, diodes, and tangled wires. Connected to the whole thing were two elaborate headbands, bristling with so many dials and lights that they looked like props from an old science fiction serial.
