DC Comics novels--Batman

by Greg Cox

  “Let go of me, you maniac!”

  The micro-diamond drill head at the business end of the Batrope dug into the underside of the balcony, taking hold in the concrete. The line went taut as the de-cel jumpline arrested Batman’s descent, sending him swinging above the street, but the Talon held on just as tightly, despite the hard rubber heel slamming into his face.

  Showing no mercy, Batman plucked a miniature flash-bang grenade from his belt and threw it straight at the assassin’s face. He averted his own eyes as the grenade went off, but the sudden blast of glare and noise jolted him even through his protective cowl. The flash-bang did the trick, however, dislodging the Talon, who tumbled helplessly toward the ground where a construction tarp and wooden scaffolding had been erected over some sidewalk repairs. The plummeting figure crashed through the tarp, vanishing from sight.

  Damn it, Batman thought. I need to keep eyes on him.

  The swinging rope carried him toward the face of the other skyscraper. He used his heels to keep from slamming into the building, then extended the cable to descend rapidly to the sidewalk, where startled night owls of a more innocent variety gaped at him. Brakes squealed as cabs and limos halted to catch a glimpse of Gotham’s near-mythical defender. People reached for their phones to snap a picture. Ignoring the bystanders, he rushed to the construction site, hoping that the fall had injured the Talon long enough for him to be apprehended.

  Escaping from the Talon wasn’t enough—the assassin still needed to face justice for the deaths of at least two people. Nor would his other targets be safe until the Talon was under wraps and the Court’s secret agenda was exposed to the light of day. In the past, Batman recalled, extreme cold had been effective in keeping Talons in a state of suspended animation so that they no longer posed a threat. He wanted to put this Talon on ice as well.

  Trading the grapnel gun for a fresh Batarang, he cautiously entered the site. Posters advertising local bands and nightclubs were plastered over the scaffolding. A ragged hole in the tarp flapped around the edges. A depression in the gravel indicated exactly where the falling Talon had landed. Blood splattered the debris.

  The Talon was gone.

  Batman silently cursed the assassin’s preternatural ability to heal. Crimson streaks and droplets suggested that the Talon has indeed managed to drag himself away in the time it had taken Batman to descend—rather less spectacularly—to street level. The bloody trail, which diminished noticeably as Batman followed it, led to an open manhole just beyond the demolished sidewalk. He stared down into the sewers, which offered a variety of subterranean escape routes.

  He fought the temptation to chase after his prey. As much as he wanted to end this tonight, he knew that realistically there was little chance of finding the killer now that he had vanished into the byzantine depths of Gotham’s substructure. Nor was Batman eager to rush into an ambush without any real plan on how to subdue his foe. Frustrated, he turned away from the beckoning manhole.

  Police sirens closed on the vicinity, no doubt responding to the burglar alarms triggered by Batman’s shattering exit from the penthouse. He wouldn’t be surprised if Vincent had his own private security team, as well. Disappearing into an unlit alley, he verified that the flash drive storing Vincent’s stolen data was still secure within a compartment on his Utility Belt.

  Throbbing ribs demanded Alfred’s services as a medic. Batman consoled himself that tonight’s expedition hadn’t been a total waste. He now knew for certain that Vincent Wright, great-grandson of Percy Wright, belonged to the Court of Owls.

  That would have to be enough for the present.

  Next time, he promised the assassin.

  It was late, and the Gotham Museum of Natural History had been closed for hours. The regular cleaning and security staff had all been sent home, the better to accommodate a very private gathering in the museum’s avian wing.

  The Court of Owls convened around a long rectangular conference table beneath a large stuffed condor that hung suspended from the ceiling. The lighting was dim, rendered warm by the dark wood of the decades-old chamber. The murmurs of conversation mingled to create ambient noise. Drawn drapes concealed the conclave from the outside world, but not from Batman, who crouched atop the condor.

  Masks, identical to the one he had found hidden in Vincent’s office, hid the identities of more than a dozen or so men and women seated at the table, but their fine attire attested to their wealth and privilege. Stone-faced bodyguards, no doubt armed to the teeth, were stationed around the perimeter of the chamber, yet the Talon was nowhere to be seen.

  This worried Batman.

  The data captured from Vincent’s home computer, once decrypted, had contained little evidence of his involvement with the Court—apparently he kept his owlish endeavors carefully segregated from his less clandestine pursuits. A close examination of his calendar, however, had turned up one seemingly innocuous engagement—a late-night appointment labeled simply “PARL.”

  Batman had learned more about owls than he would have preferred. He knew that a group of owls was properly known as a “parliament.” It was why he’d tailed Vincent to this meeting, keeping a wary eye out for the Talon the entire time.

  The condor’s impressive wingspan hid his presence from the Court. Nevertheless seeing so many Owls gathered in one place, for the first time since he’d escaped the Labyrinth, troubled him more than he’d anticipated. Despite his past victories, the Court endured, just as it had down through the generations. Was he fooling himself to think that he could ever bring the organization down permanently? Or would it outlive him, after all?

  “Let us get down to business.”

  A female Owl stood at the head of the table, raising her voice to be heard above the various murmured conversations. Delicate gold filigree around the edges and eyeholes of her mask indicated that she was the current Grandmaster of the Court, as did her imperious tone and bearing. A mink stole warmed her shoulders above an elegant black evening gown suitable for a red-carpet entrance. Tasteful silver jewelry gleamed on her fingers and around her neck. Lustrous black hair, done up in a chignon, could be glimpsed at the back of her head.

  “Times being what they are,” she added, “we should avoid congregating in one spot for any longer than is absolutely necessary, so it behooves us to conduct this conclave in a brisk and efficient manner. We do not have the luxury of engaging in idle chatter.”

  The woman’s voice wasn’t familiar, either from the Gotham social scene or from his past dealings with the Court. She would have been newly installed as the Grandmaster after the Court’s recent reverses, which had included some bloody internal power struggles. More than a few of the Court’s previous leaders were behind bars, in exile, or six feet under. Batman wondered how exactly this new Grandmaster had snagged the top spot, and just how secure her position might be. Internecine conflicts could sometimes spill over into the city itself, endangering the innocent as well as the guilty.

  The hubbub died down as the Grandmaster continued to address the Court.

  “Thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend this conclave,” she said, “and my gratitude to those members of the Court who quietly arranged to make this apt location available for the night.” An older Owl harrumphed at his seat. His stooped back, as well as the cane leaning against his chair, implied both age and infirmity.

  “Still doesn’t feel right holding these meetings all over town, instead of at the Harbor House,” he growled. “It lacks tradition… history.”

  In addition to their underground sanctuary, the Owls had once held Court at a venerable old edifice on the city’s South Side. It had appeared to be an elite social club catering to Gotham’s upper crust, but Batman had seen past that façade, forcing the Owls to abandon their long-time lair. Harbor House had remained empty ever since. Whispered rumors about its dark history had discouraged even the most avaricious would-be developers.

  “I understand how you feel,” the Grandmas
ter replied to the querulous old man, “but we both know that it is no longer safe to frequent certain old haunts. Ever since the Batman turned his eye toward us in earnest, the Court has opted never to meet twice in the same place. Nor do we need to, given our ready access to any number of suitable locales.”

  No wonder I haven’t tracked down their new meeting-place, Batman mused. It’s become a moving target.

  He was tempted by the opportunity to apprehend the gathered Owls in one swoop. The bodyguards posed a challenge, but he had faced stiffer odds before, and was confident that he could take them down, if necessary. But the altercation might allow the Owls to escape, rendering the effort futile. And there was still no sign of the Talon. It concerned Batman that the Court’s most formidable defender remained unaccounted for.

  Weighing his options, he waited to hear what the Owls had to say before deciding on a course of action.

  “It is a wise and prudent policy, Madame Grandmaster,” a dapper Owl stated at the opposite end of the table. Batman instantly recognized Vincent Wright’s voice and mannerisms. “I commend your caution… as long as we don’t become too scared of our own shadows. Or the shadow of a certain bat.” That started a new round of murmuring, which their leader cut off with the raising of a single hand.

  “‘Grandmaster’ will suffice,” she said archly, “and while we appreciate your approval of this Court’s decision, we hardly deem it necessary.”

  “My apologies… Grandmaster,” Vincent replied. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “See that you don’t.” Her beady black eyes fixed on him. “Particularly since I, and various other members of the Court, grow increasingly concerned about recent efforts you have undertaken in the Court’s name, namely deploying our Talon to re-bury a forgotten scandal concerning your family.”

  There it is, Batman thought. Masks or no masks, the Grandmaster wasn’t even pretending to shield Vincent Wright’s anonymity. Was it a careless breach of protocol, or a deliberate attempt to put Vincent in his place?

  “Everything I’ve done was in the best interests of the Court,” Vincent insisted, “and as you know, it was done with your authorization. I would never think to go behind the Court’s back.”

  She nodded. “We agreed that the Lee girl’s investigations warranted action, yes, but your aggressive approach to the matter has caused it to escalate at an alarming rate, attracting the attention of our greatest enemy,” the Grandmaster said. “In hindsight, perhaps we should have let sleeping dogs lie. Why go to such lengths over a dusty bit of history from a century ago?”

  Masked heads nodded near her end of the table. Perhaps half of those assembled appeared to share the Grandmaster’s concerns. The other half, seated at Vincent’s end, refrained from nodding. Muttered voices conveyed unrest among the Owls.

  “Surely the secrets of the Court must be protected from scrutiny?” Vincent said calmly. “Hasn’t that always been our way? ‘Speak not a whispered word of them,’ and all that?” Now the Owls seated near him nodded in agreement. It appeared there was indeed a degree of dissension within the Court. A rival faction, perhaps, jockeying for power in the wake of recent setbacks? Or simply disagreement on this one point?

  How ambitious are you, Vincent?

  “Guarding our past cannot endanger our present,” the Grandmaster said. “Particularly when it brings the Batman to your very door.” She clucked in disapproval. “Did you expect that his nocturnal visit to your penthouse would escape our notice, or that this would not concern us?”

  “Not in the least,” Vincent replied, “but I wouldn’t make too much of the incident. The Talon repelled the incursion and now… what? The Dark Knight is working against us? What else is new?” He scoffed. “A reasonable degree of caution is one thing, but we can hardly curtail our operations at the first sign of trouble. If that’s our policy, we might as well withdraw from Gotham altogether, which I doubt anyone here favors.” He gave a dramatic flourish of his hand.

  “Hear, hear!” another Owl agreed, thumping the tabletop for emphasis. “This is our city, not that damn vigilante’s. He’s the one who should be running scared.”

  The Grandmaster glared at the speaker, silencing him with a pointed look, then turned her gilded mask back toward Vincent.

  “Are you accusing this Court of cowardice?”

  “Certainly not,” he answered. “I’m simply recommending that we not let Batman intimidate us. With all due respect, an excess of caution could prove as much a mistake as underestimating him.”

  “Perhaps,” the Grandmaster said skeptically, “but a wise owl chooses its battles. I remain unconvinced that this old business of yours merits further exposure, let alone going to war.”

  “The Court is already at war, and has been for some time,” Vincent argued. “That’s not going to change, regardless of what we decide tonight. And there’s far more to this current affair than merely some ‘dusty’ old history, as you put it. There’s an opportunity to be grasped, a chance to locate a priceless asset that has eluded us for a century!”

  That got Batman’s attention.

  I knew there was more to this case than a scandal…

  “Percy Wright’s fabled elixir,” the Grandmaster said mockingly. “It’s nothing but a pipe dream.”

  “Far from it,” Vincent insisted, leaning forward. “We know from our own secret histories that the elixir existed, which is why my family has been diligently trying to recreate it for generations— minus its… incendiary side effects.”

  “Yet you have nothing to show for it,” the Grandmaster observed, “other than the occasional charred cadaver or two, or three, or four…”

  The Burning Sickness, Batman realized. It’s not a fever then, but a failed experiment. From the sound of it, Wright and his ancestors had been testing this mysterious “elixir” on human guinea pigs ever since Percy’s time. But what kind of chemical were they talking about? What made it so valuable?

  “Casualties among the lower classes,” Vincent replied, “and only when a promising new approach presented itself.” He sat back again. “Still, I confess that the project has encountered a frustrating number of false leads over the decades. Eliminating the lethal aspect has proven more challenging than one might expect.”

  Batman felt his frustration growing. So many hints, yet nothing concrete.

  Why human subjects? he wondered. Why not test on animals?

  “We’ve heard all this before,” the old Owl with the cane said. “From you, and your father before you. What has changed?”

  “Joanna Lee,” Vincent said. “We’ve long known that Percy, for his own reasons, withheld data from the Court. This he confessed in a letter that was delivered after his death. In that message he claimed to have developed a version of the elixir that did not induce spontaneous combustion in its subjects. Despite that fact, he swore that the formula would be lost to history, ‘for the sake of the future.’” The tone of Vincent’s voice revealed how little he thought of his ancestor’s scruples.

  “Needless to say,” he continued, “my family has sought Percy’s secret formula ever since, but until recently I thought had exhausted all avenues of investigation. Fortunately, as you know, the Court has mechanisms in place to alert us if anyone digs too deeply into our affairs, past or present. When Joanna Lee began consulting certain records, conducting specific searches, and posting her notes to the university’s cloud-based backup system, I became aware of her investigation into my ancestor’s colorful history… and of her provocative new theory that Percy had, in fact, hidden a secret message in his work.

  “Needless to say, I was intrigued.”

  So Vincent, at least, was taking Joanna’s theory seriously. Now if only he would explain the nature of Percy’s work…

  “At which point, naturally, our agenda has become two-fold,” Vincent said. “First, to obtain Ms. Lee and obtain whatever fresh insights and information we can extract from her, while simultaneously containing the situation by eliminatin
g anyone who might be familiar with her studies.”

  “And what, may I ask, is the current status of the operation?” the Grandmaster said acidly.

  “Joanna is in hiding, but cannot long elude us. Our eyes and ears are everywhere, after all.”

  “What of the roommate?” the Grandmaster asked. “The one Batman rescued from the Talon? You had hoped to use her as leverage to ensure Joanna Lee’s cooperation if and when you secured her.”

  “Claire Nesko?” Vincent said with a chuckle. Batman could practically hear him smirking behind his mask. “There we have had greater success. Despite Batman’s best efforts to hide her, the Talon is on his way to retrieve her even as we speak.”

  Batman stiffened, and it was all he could do not to react—not even a sharp intake of breath. Suddenly he was faced with a harsh dilemma. He knew now where the Talon was. Should he take on the Court—bodyguards or no bodyguards—while they were gathered in one place, or rush to Claire’s rescue?

  The Court of Owls posed a threat to all of Gotham. Many more lives than Claire’s could be in play here, especially if the Court got their hands on this elusive elixir. Or if they continued to experiment on helpless citizens, resulting in another “outbreak” of the Burning Sickness.

  Yet an innocent was in danger. An innocent he had promised to keep safe.

  There was no choice, really. He couldn’t let Claire become the Talon’s next victim. Moving with intense focus, he pulled a secure phone from his belt and texted a priority alert to Nightwing.

  Talon coming for Claire.

  On my way.

  The conclave wasn’t over yet, but it was time to go. Eschewing stealth for speed, he plucked a handful of miniature smoke-bombs from his belt and hurled them at the assembly below. Billowing black fumes engulfed the Owls and their guards, shielding Batman from view. An acrid odor polluted the air, further distracting his foes. Agitated shouts and coughing could be heard through the swirling smoke-screen.