Batman 4 - Batman & Robin

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Still, Freeze had to stay well below maximum speed to keep from swerving off the road himself, and his escape route would have been thoroughly planned. That meant he had something in mind.

  A moment later, Batman found out what it was. A giant freeze gun atop the drill truck fired—and hit a massive statue looming ahead of it. Instantly, there was an explosion in the statue’s neck, creating a storm of ice and a hole big enough to drive a truck through—

  —which was exactly what Freeze seemed to have in mind.

  Leaping off the road, the villain drove through the hole and raced onto the statue’s shoulder. His cronies followed him as he made a beeline down the statue’s arm.

  Gritting his teeth, Batman accelerated and blew through the gap in the statue’s neck as well. In the process, he glanced back at Robin in his sideview mirror. From the seat of his Redbird, Robin gave him a thumbs-up, full of confidence.

  Then he followed the Batmobile through. Batman scowled. This kind of surface was chancy enough with four wheels. But with two . . .

  Up ahead, Freeze’s convoy was closing in on the statue’s hand. Batman hit a button in the Batmobile’s control console and a series of schematics lit up. They showed him the various trajectories of Freeze’s vehicles and their imminent jumps from the hand, over the abyss of the city, to the lower rooftops of Gotham beyond.

  Batman peered at Robin again and tilted his head forward, activating the radio hidden in his cowl.

  “Pull back,” he said. “You can’t make the jump.”

  The wind whipping in his face, Robin shook his head.

  “I can.”

  The Batmobile shot down the statue’s arm, the Redbird close behind.

  “Pull back,” Batman repeated.

  “I can make it,” Robin insisted.

  Abruptly, he shot a wheelie, overtaking the Batmobile.

  Batman looked to one of the monitors built into his dashboard. “Redbird control codes,” he said out loud.

  A moment later, the schematics for the Redbird flashed on the monitor.

  “Disable engine,” said Batman.

  He saw the Redbird’s engine warning light begin to flash. His protégé reacted with frustration as his motor began to die. Still, the abyss was coming up fast. The boy would have to accept his situation before he went over the brink.

  Batman bit his lip. He’d had a choice to make and he’d made it—for Robin’s own good. Now he could only hope.

  Fortunately, his sidekick’s bike-riding skills hadn’t deserted him. As Batman looked on, Robin side-grounded the Redbird, skidding viciously but slowing down nonetheless.

  At the same time, Freeze and his cronies split toward separate fingers of the statue. Their superthrusters fired, and Freeze’s drill truck made the jump, heading for a sloping roof on the other side of the abyss.

  His henchmen’s trucks followed, flying into the air toward the rooftops beyond. But Batman could see they hadn’t achieved the required height. Their trajectories wouldn’t carry them as far as Freeze’s had.

  There was a moment when their occupants must have realized that. When the cold fingers of Death must have closed around their hearts, eager to claim the rest of them.

  Then the suspense was over. One truck crashed through an elevated billboard, doomed to destroy itself on the streets below. The other smashed into a building and exploded in a red-orange burst of flames.

  Only Freeze’s vehicle made it to safety, hitting the sloped roof with brakes screeching. Spinning 180 degrees, it came to a stop with its freeze gun pointing back the way it had come.

  Pointing toward its pursuers, Batman thought. How convenient.

  The Redbird, meanwhile, was sliding dangerously close to the end of the statue’s finger and the urban abyss below. But Robin finally wrestled it to a halt . . . just as Batman slammed his vehicle into top gear and roared past his protégé.

  The Batmobile left the finger like a rocket and flew over the chasm. In his rearview mirror, Batman could see Robin standing on the statue’s fingertip, shouting his rage into the night. But he could deal with that later. Right now, he had to have his wits about him.

  As the Batmobile soared over the abyss toward Freeze’s truck, its freeze gun fired a deadly barrage. Catching the Batmobile in midflight, the cryonic blast began to ice it over.

  Batman cursed inwardly as he saw his controls had frozen solid. A monitor flashed, alerting him to widespread systems failure. And the windshield was piling up with ice.

  The Batmobile was falling through the night like a frozen sculpture. Batman had to do something. Gritting his teeth, he reached for one of the few controls that still might work.

  Pressing a button, he braced himself.

  Abruptly, his windshield exploded and he was catapulted through the cloud of icy shards like a torpedo. He flew into the air high above the dark, spire-studded city.

  He was pleased to see the Batmobile drop to the safety of the rooftops on the other side of the abyss. But now, it was his own safety about which he was most concerned.

  Executing a flip, he whipped his cape open like the wings of a giant, dark angel and angled down, riding the night winds in a racing glide toward Freeze’s truck below.

  Fortunately, his cape had a lightweight metal framework, the kind that allowed him to swoop through the sky when the conditions were right.

  He could see his shadow fall over the truck’s open cab. Freeze had to be seeing it, too. But there was no time for him to do anything about it.

  Batman smashed into him, knocking his helmeted face into the steering wheel with bone-crushing force. As Freeze’s head snapped back again, the crime fighter grabbed him by the scruff of his suit.

  Then—still airborne—he wrenched Freeze out of the cab and spread his wings as a brake against the wind. A moment later, he landed in the moonlight, allowing a stunned Freeze to slump to the ground—the diamond still in his silver-gloved hand.

  There was no fight left in the villain. No impulse to resist. It had all been knocked out of him.

  “I’m putting you on ice,” Batman told him.

  And he was nothing if not a man of his word.

  Bruce watched his young friend pace the length of the Batcave. Dick was red-faced, furious.

  “I could have made that jump,” he insisted.

  “You could have splattered your brains on the side of the building,” Bruce explained—yet again—trying his best to be patient.

  After all, he’d been there. He knew what it was like to hurt inside. To want to set things right all at once. To want to turn unimaginable horror into someone’s salvation.

  “You know,” Dick went on, “in the circus, the Flying Graysons were a team. We had to depend on each other. Each of us had to trust the others to do their parts, or we were finished. That’s what being partners is all about. Sometimes, the only way to win is by counting on someone else.”

  Bruce smiled tautly. “Be reasonable. You couldn’t even keep your mind on the job at hand. All you could think about was Poison Ivy.”

  Dick exploded—at least partly, Bruce thought, because the older man had hit the nail on the head. “I was doing the job at hand,” he snapped. “And as far as Poison Ivy goes, I wasn’t the only one—”

  “—smitten by her. I know,” Bruce conceded, refusing to let the conversation devolve into tit for tat. “But there’s a difference. Whatever happened at the Flower Ball, I was able to put it out of my mind. I was able to focus. Obviously, you couldn’t do that.”

  The younger man’s mouth became a thin, hard line. “Is that your interpretation of it?”

  Careful. “That’s the way I saw it, yes.”

  “Uh-huh. And the way you saw it is the way it happened, right?” Dick shook his head derisively. “Always, every time, the world according to Bruce. That’s your idea of friendship, too. Your view, your house, your rales. Your way or the highway.” The boy’s muscles worked in his jaw. “And you know what? I’m sick of it!”

 
; Bruce felt something tighten within him. Still, he kept his voice even, controlled. “Yes,” he said, “they’re my rules. But they keep us alive. And if you want to stay on this team, you’ll have to abide by them.”

  Suddenly, Dick was right in his face. “Of all the pigheaded—!”

  Whatever he was going to say after that, he must have thought better of it—because he stopped himself and took a breath. And another.

  “This is no partnership,” Dick rasped, his voice calm now but hollow. “You’re never going to trust me, are you?”

  Then he turned and stalked off.

  Bruce watched him go. The boy would cool off, he told himself. He would see things in the light of reason.

  But even as he thought it, he wasn’t so sure.

  As Bruce approached Alfred’s room, he could hear someone talking inside. The last thing he wanted to do was eavesdrop. Clearing his throat, he knocked on the butler’s door.

  A moment later, Alfred answered it. “Won’t you come in?” he asked.

  “Thank you,” said Bruce.

  The television was on in the background. Hence, the talking he had heard from the hallway.

  The screen showed the billionaire’s alter ego fighting his way toward Freeze at the Flower Ball. He didn’t know where the video camera had come from, but fortunately it hadn’t gotten a good shot of Batman.

  Alfred looked at him. “Congratulations on your apprehension of Mr. Freeze, sir. Batman rather monopolized the evening news.”

  Bruce nodded. “Thanks.” But he didn’t feel especially celebratory at that particular moment.

  What’s more, his friend and confidant picked up on it. “Is there something wrong, sir?”

  The billionaire sighed. “Alfred, am I . . .” He recalled the words Dick had spoken in anger, still feeling the sting of them. “Am I . . . pigheaded? Is it always my way or the highway?”

  The butler thought about it. “Why, yes,” he replied at last. “Now that you mention it, it is very much that way.”

  Bruce wasn’t sure what kind of answer he’d expected, but that wasn’t it. “It is?” he asked again.

  “Indubitably, sir.” Obviously, Alfred had given this some thought. “You see, death and chance stole your parents. But rather than become a victim, you have done everything in your power to control the fates. To stack the deck in your favor. For what is Batman if not an effort to master the chaos that sweeps our world? An attempt to control everything—including the specter of Death itself?”

  Bruce gazed out the window, into the darkness. He imagined that he saw two figures out there under an umbrella, laying wreaths on a rainswept grave. Himself, as a boy of course, and Alfred. As the adult Bruce watched, the butler put his arm around the boy and held him close.

  “But I can’t do it, can I?” he asked, returning to the here and now. “I can’t control death.”

  It was a rhetorical question, but Alfred confirmed it anyway. “No, sir. I’m afraid none of us can.”

  And yet, thought Bruce, determination stiffening in him like an old habit, how can I not continue to try?

  Still smoldering with anger and resentment, Dick went out to the garage. It was where he felt most at home—the one place at Wayne Manor that was more his than Bruce’s.

  But even as he entered and reveled in the sight of all those gorgeous machines, he couldn’t help hearing Bruce’s words in his head. Couldn’t help remembering the sting of them.

  “They’re my rules.”

  And what was that business about Poison Ivy? Sure, there had been a moment there when he had been entranced by her—just like everyone else in the room. But the moment had passed.

  By the time he had kicked the Redbird into gear up on that statue, Ivy was a memory. He had known exactly what he was doing when he gunned the engine to make the leap after Freeze’s drill truck.

  “. . . my rules.”

  Who did Bruce think he was? Dick’s father!

  Not by a long shot. John Grayson had died at the hands of Two-Face, along with Dick’s mother and brother Chris. They were gone, all of them, and no one could replace them.

  “. . . my rules.”

  Besides, he wasn’t a baby anymore. He didn’t need a nursemaid. Didn’t need anyone telling him what to—

  Suddenly, he heard the scrape of footsteps in the darkness. His training taking over, he crouched and looked for the source of them.

  Dick caught sight of a shadow moving among other shadows. Someone was wheeling a bike across the floor of the garage. Someone slender and . . .

  It was Barbara, their houseguest.

  But what was she doing here? Where was she taking the motorcycle?

  Only one way to find out, he told himself. Approaching Barbara from behind, Dick tapped her on the shoulder. Lightly, so she wouldn’t be alarmed.

  Suddenly, he felt himself flying through the air, the victim of a well-executed judo move. Rough landing, too.

  Dick could’ve handled it better if he had been even the least bit prepared for it—but, of course, he wasn’t. After all, it wasn’t Bruce Lee he’d tapped on the shoulder. It was only Alfred’s prim, proper niece from some stuffy English boarding school.

  Barbara looked down at him, horrified. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “So dreadfully sorry.”

  “Uh, right,” he said, rubbing his elbow where it had slammed into the concrete of the garage floor. But it was his pride that hurt more.

  She glanced contritely at the bike she’d wheeled in—Dick’s high-performance number. “I’d just never seen anything quite like it, you understand. Anything so . . . I don’t know, massive. I took it out for a spin. I do so hope it didn’t inconvenience you.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he got a good look at her for the first time. She was dressed all in black leather. Not exactly the fashion statement he would’ve expected from her.

  She noticed his scrutiny. “Ah yes, the outfit. For a . . . er, costume party. Just trying it out. One never knows how leather will wear.”

  Barbara reached out for his hand. He gave it to her—albeit warily—and allowed her to help him to his feet.

  “Nice throw,” he said.

  “Ah, yes,” she replied. “Judo lessons at school. All the rage, you know. I suppose they’ve taken better than I thought.” She smiled. “Again, my greatest of pardons.”

  Dick didn’t have a chance to respond. Before he could even think about it, Barbara was gone, her withdrawal fueled by her profound embarrassment. Or was it something more than that? he wondered.

  He stared at the bike she’d borrowed, then at her retreating figure, then at the bike again. All was not as it seemed in Wayne Manor.

  CHAPTER TEN

  If Freeze had any real feelings left, if his heart hadn’t frozen in his chest like a cold, dead relic of some ancient civilization, his humiliation might have been overwhelming.

  Not just because he was headed for a cell in the notoriously hellish institution known as Arkham Asylum. Not because he was being put away with some of the most sadistic criminal minds ever to caress a switchblade.

  No, it was the way in which he was being transported there.

  Freeze had been jammed inside a giant, subzero refrigerator on a heavy-duty gurney, the door to the refrigerator chained and padlocked shut. Only his frost-covered face was visible through the opening formerly occupied by the freezer compartment door.

  It allowed him to see where he was going as a couple of armed guards trundled him through the maximum-security wing. But it also allowed the other inmates to see him, and that was the part he would have found so humiliating if he were still a mere warm-blooded human being.

  The place was dark and full of shrieking pleas for help. And it smelled of things Freeze was disinclined to think about.

  Through the small, barred window set into the door of one cell, he could see a dark-bearded visage emerge from the shadows. And a moment later, an arrogant smile.

  “It’s good to see you
, Lord of the Frigid North,” the inmate declared in a resonant and commanding voice. “Perhaps we can join forces for a little revenge. As you know, it’s a dish best served cold.”

  Then he laughed. It was a sound to chill the blood—assuming one’s vessels weren’t already filled with cryogenic solution.

  Freeze turned away and eyed a cell on the other side of the corridor. The inmate there was pressing his face against the bars as if trying to push his way out.

  “I’ve got one for you,” he whispered. “Listen up, okay? What d’ya get when you cross a magician with an icicle? Huh? Whaddaya get? No, really, what? Just guess, for god-sakes.”

  As Freeze’s conveyance passed the cell, the man grew more insistent. More desperate for an answer. But Freeze had no intention of taking part in his little game.

  “All right,” the man shrieked. “I’ll tell, I’ll tell. You get a cold spell, y’see? A cold spell!”

  Freeze saw. He wasn’t amused.

  There were others. Not all of them talked. But all of them took notice of his passage.

  “How d’ya like it?” sneered one of his guards. “You’re the common cold, and we’re the cure. Welcome home, Frost Face.”

  The prisoner rolled his eyes to look up at the man. “Allow me to break the ice,” he said. “My name is Freeze. Learn it well, for it is the chilling sound of your own doom.”

  The guard chuckled. “Sure it is. That’s what they all say.” He indicated a cell with a tilt of his head. “The Hatter there? Said he’d fit me for a headband a few sizes too small. The Scarecrow? Promised he’d send me screaming into the night. But here I am. And there they are.”

  They stopped outside a cell door with no one looking out of its barred window. One of the guards turned a high-tech key in the stainless-steel lock, and the door swung open. Then they wheeled Mr. Freeze inside and dumped him out of his freezer onto the floor.