Batman 4 - Batman & Robin

by Michael Jan Friedman

He had no suit on. But there was a mechanism in the middle of his cell that promised to remedy that oversight. Glowing rings on the floor and ceiling projected a shimmering column of snowy cold. A cold field, as it were. The guards began dragging him into it.

  Suddenly, in a burst of icy fury, Freeze shrugged off the guards. Smashing one in the face with his fist, he kicked the other in the chest—and ran for the door.

  An error in judgment, as it turned out. As his body left the hypothermic field, he felt a terrible searing pain in his insides. Tumbling to his knees, he looked at his hands. They were withering, turning gray, giving off a putrid mist. So was the rest of his body.

  “Look at him stew,” said one of the guards—the one with the big mouth. “How do you like your bad guy, Joey? Medium or well-done?”

  The guards stood over Freeze and laughed as the villain tried to crawl back inside the field. No Olympic event had ever been so difficult for him, so charged with agony.

  Finally, he made it inside. The pain began to subside. His color began to return to normal as well.

  “Get used to it,” snarled the guard. “You’re gonna be here a long time, Freeze. A very long time.”

  The villain looked up at the guard, who had gone to the wall sink to wash his hands. Freeze smiled an empty smile.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “You see, the means of my liberation are in your hands. Sadly, you will not live to see it.”

  Ivy considered the Turkish bathhouse. It was a good site, centrally located in Gotham’s theater district. And it was no longer in use, if the boards nailed across the front door were any indication.

  Perfect, she thought. But truthfully, her mind wasn’t entirely on the site-selection process.

  “So those janitors at the Flower Ball were Batface and Birdbrain, militant arm of the warm-blooded oppressors.” She grunted. “They turned out to be more resistant to my love dust than I would have expected.”

  She looked at Bane, who stood beside her with a satchel in hand, awaiting orders. He had nothing to say. No reaction to her comment.

  “No matter,” Ivy went on. “I’ll give them a stronger dose next time. They’ll literally be . . . dying for me.”

  Pointing to the door of the bathhouse, she told Bane: “Go to work.”

  Without hesitation, he dropped the satchel. Then he joined his fists and hammered his way through the wooden boards. Sturdy two-by-fours splintered like balsa wood.

  Ivy led the way inside, Bane following with his satchel. Clearing away a cobweb, she could see that her assumption had been correct. The place was deserted. Abandoned by its previous occupants some time ago.

  There was a large collection of Middle Eastern furniture, all of it stained and crumbling. Pictures of slaves and sycophants covered the cracked walls, their colors smudged and faded.

  Ivy sighed. “A fixer-upper, yes. But with a certain homey charm.”

  That’s when the shadows in the back of the place began to move. One slipped across the doorway. Several more surrounded them.

  “Ah,” said Ivy, “a minus. Current tenants.”

  One such tenant stepped into a column of moonlight projected through a hole in the roof. He was pale, but strong-looking in a stringy kind of way. His age? Somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five.

  An urban predator, Ivy observed with the practiced eye of a scientist. His jacket labeled him one of the “Golums.” In fact, these specimens seemed to have that in common.

  “You boys ought to get out more,” she advised them. “A little sun does wonders for the complexion.”

  “Hello, pretty,” said the one who’d stepped forward.

  “Hello yourself,” Ivy replied. “I love this place, I really do. I hope it’s priced to sell.”

  “We love you,” Golum told her. “You look good enough to eat.”

  She laughed. “Oh, that I am. Come and get me—if you can.”

  The Golums closed in. Just as quickly, Ivy slammed the activation stud on Bane’s chest. The pump in his backpack went to work, forcing Venom through the tubes on his back into his skull. He dropped his satchel again.

  The Golums attacked. But Bane hurled them away effortlessly, the way a larger animal might toss a smaller one. He kicked them, punched them, and sent them hurtling into walls.

  One by one, they slumped to the floor and lay still. And with each demise, the Golums’ chances of beating Bane diminished.

  Eventually, the survivors ran away. From Ivy’s point of view, it was the smartest thing they had ever done.

  She gazed at her servant approvingly. “For the strong, silent type, you can be most persuasive. Let’s redecorate.” She crossed the room, appraising it as she went. “First, the light is all wrong.”

  At another gesture from her, Bane ripped a hanging board from the ceiling. Old wooden planks tumbled to the floor, expanding the shaft of moonlight that streamed in from above.

  “Also,” said Ivy, “what is this floor?”

  Bane stomped on it, revealing the dirt beneath.

  “Au naturel,” she said approvingly. “Still, I’ve always hankered for something on the water.”

  Bane found a water main and smashed it with his foot. Water gushed out, irrigating the soil and then some.

  “Now a little color,” Ivy decided. “As I understand it, it took God seven days to create paradise.” She withdrew a handful of tiny seeds from Bane’s satchel. “Let’s see if I can do better.”

  Ivy dropped the tiny seeds on the ground. Instantly, they began to sprout into vines, which in turn spawned fast-budding flowers. She saw the Welcome to Gotham bauble in the satchel as well and removed it. Then she turned to face her accomplice.

  “Bane,” she said, “I’ve found a fellow who strikes my fancy. A cool customer, yes. Icy demeanor, no question. But I detect a certain ruthless charm I may be able to use to my advantage.”

  Glancing at the dead thugs all around her, she added, “Honey, clean up this mess, won’t you? We’ve got company coming.”

  Alfred had set the table for dinner with his usual attention to detail. But in fact, his attention was a world away.

  He had tried everything he could think of in his search for his brother Wilfred. It had availed him nothing. And time, unfortunately, was very much of the essence.

  “Alfred?” said a decidedly feminine voice.

  He emerged from his reverie with a start. “Yes, Miss Madison?” he responded, turning in the starlet’s direction.

  She smiled apologetically. “I was hoping for some more wine,” she said, indicating her nearly empty glass with an inclination of her head.

  “Of course,” he told her. Lifting the wine bottle from its place in the ice-filled wine bucket beside the table, he poured Julie Madison a refill. Then he turned to his employer.

  “Sir?”

  Bruce held up his hand. “None for me, Alfred. Thanks.”

  Restoring the bottle to its bucket, the butler walked away and allowed the two young people their privacy. However, he had barely exited the room when he felt another agonizing, gut-wrenching pang.

  Reaching out for the wall, Alfred did his best to endure it. To get through it somehow. Sweat beaded on his forehead in testimony to his effort. A moan escaped his lips.

  Finally, the pain went away. But it left him weak and trembling, even worse than before.

  He had to find Wilfred, he told himself. Before it was too late.

  Bruce watched Alfred head for the kitchen, then turned back to his guest. Ivy was sitting at the other end of the long table in the dining room of Wayne Manor, licking her lips with sensuous abandon.

  “Bruce?” she asked.

  But it wasn’t Ivy who’d said his name. He blinked—and saw Julie sitting there, the glow of the fireplace discovering golden highlights in her hair.

  Not Ivy. Julie.

  She leaned forward. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

  “What?” said Bruce. “I’m sorry. You were saying . . .”

/>   Julie frowned. “We’ve been going out over a year now and . . . okay, here goes. Bruce, I want to spend my life with you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw someone moving languidly in the background. Someone dressed all in green. Coming up behind him, she ran her hands down his chest.

  Swallowing hard, Bruce got up and went over to Julie. But he wasn’t so much approaching his guest as retreating from the vision of Ivy.

  “Julie,” he said, chuckling softly, even a little nervously, “I’m not the marrying kind. There are things about me you wouldn’t understand.”

  She shrugged. “Like what? I know you’re a dedicated bachelor. That you’ve had your wild nights.”

  “Wild doesn’t exactly cover it,” he said.

  Julie took his hand. “But there’s nothing you’ve done under the cover of darkness I couldn’t learn to understand.”

  Bruce smiled uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

  “I’m betting on you,” she told him, leaning closer.

  He couldn’t help but notice how her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Or the muskiness of her perfume.

  “You’ll make someone a good husband one day,” Julie predicted. “But I can’t wait around forever. Don’t answer now. Just promise me you’ll think it over, all right?”

  Then she leaned even closer, until her lips were only inches from his. “And here’s some food for thought,” she whispered.

  Their lips met and they kissed. Passionately. After what seemed like a long time, Bruce opened his eyes.

  And recoiled at the sight of Ivy.

  But it was only Julie, he realized a second later. Only Julie, looking up at him with a puzzled expression.

  “Who’s Ivy?” she asked.

  “What?” he blurted.

  “You just called me Ivy. Who’s Ivy?”

  Bruce took a breath, let it out. “I wish I knew.”

  Dick Grayson sat and listened to loud, driving music and stared intently at the Batcave’s computer monitors. The ones on the sides were blank. The one in the middle showed a newsphoto of the Flower Ball survivors.

  “Enhance detail,” he said. “Quadrants fourteen to nineteen.”

  A corner of the screen was highlighted. A moment later, the highlighted image was expanded to fill a larger portion of the screen.

  It was a picture of Ivy.

  Dick shook his head. “Who are you?” he asked out loud.

  He was interrupted by the clanging of an alarm. Suddenly, the screen changed to an image of Barbara Wilson climbing out her window. As Dick got to his feet, he saw her start to rappel down an exterior wall of the manor. She was in her leathers again.

  “Alert,” said the computer. “Unauthorized motion within specified parameters. Repeat, alert.”

  Dick grinned. “Gotcha!”

  He made it to the stairs in a couple of bounds. Then up the steps, through the house, out the door, and across the grounds that separated the mansion from the garage. What’s more, he arrived in time to see her duck inside.

  This time, he remained in the shadows as he watched Barbara wheel out the competition bike and straddle it. Kick-starting the engine, she peeled out into the night.

  But not alone. Not this time. Rolling another racing bike out of the shadows, Dick pulled on his helmet, kicked his engine into life, and started after her.

  Of course, he didn’t catch up to her. Not right away, at least. He hung back as far as he could without losing her, letting her lead him through the suburbs and into the city. By the time she was done, she was in one of the worst parts of Gotham.

  A broad, cobblestoned street in what used to be the meat-packing district. But the packing plants had closed a long time ago, and no one lived here now except the rodents.

  Several motorcycle riders had gathered there, each representing a different gang. Some had dyed their hair, others had pierced their faces. All were leather-clad, though their costumes varied. Boys and girls for whom speed was a drug, the streets their second home.

  Dick recognized the bikers’ colors. Some, he’d seen close up. Others, he knew from the files Batman kept on them. If Bruce hadn’t taken him in after the death of his family, Dick might easily have become one of them.

  “. . . my rules.”

  Frowning, he put the thought aside and focused on the job at hand. Just as he had on the statue, he assured himself.

  With a quick burst of speed, Barbara pulled up alongside one of the bikers—someone named Banker, if memory served. Top dog in a west-side gang called the Disciples.

  Banker looked Barbara up and down. “Whassup?”

  “How much coin to play?” she asked.

  “Two and a half,” he grunted.

  She nodded and produced the cash. Banker tucked it into a hidden pocket in his racing leathers.

  Another biker stepped forward. His street name was Spike.

  “You got a tag?” he asked Barbara.

  She shrugged. “Folks call me Three-Jump.”

  Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the slice won the tunnel run two nights ago. That was trike racing. This is the stuff.” He grinned. “Maybe you wanna ride my hog instead.”

  Barbara returned the smile. “How about a side bet?”

  The other bikers oohed and aahed. They were impressed.

  Spike stopped grinning. “You’re on,” he spat. “How’s another five hundred sound, slice?”

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  Banker held the cash for both of them. As he tucked it away in his outfit, Dick moved his bike forward and paid his entry fee. His face hidden by his helmet, there was no way Barbara would be able to tell who he was.

  The racers all donned their headgear and assumed their starting positions. Engines revved. Banker raised a pistol in the air . . .

  . . . and fired.

  Suddenly, the bikers shot down the street. Some went over the tops of cars, others across cement stoops. Dick saw a biker beside Barbara careen into a pile of trash cans, sending them flying every which way.

  Two others went neck and neck toward an oncoming truck. At the last possible second, they split up and flew off parked cars, then converged and hit the ground again. But one of them spun out, allowing the other to take a position at the head of the pack.

  Nice race, thought Dick.

  But that didn’t stop him from creeping ahead to join the leaders. After all, that’s where Alfred’s niece was, and he wanted to be able to keep an eye on her.

  After a couple of minutes, he pulled even with Barbara, Spike, and another racer, leaving the rest of the bikers in his dust. Then one of the front-runners hit a patch of oil and skidded into a wall, turning himself and his bike into a raging fireball.

  Dick winced. That could’ve been any of them.

  Up ahead, he could see the finish line—a series of flashing yellow warning beacons. They were situated atop the incomplete construction of a drawbridge in the near distance.

  The race was really down to three now—Barbara, Spike, and him. They raced onto the bridge, jockeying for position with riveted steel clanking beneath their wheels.

  The finish line was coming up fast. But just beyond the line of flashing cones, there was an abyss separating the two as-yet-unconnected components of the bridge. The trick was to cross the finish line first, but still avoid pitching into the water just past it.

  Spike was keeping up fine, but he was approaching the finish line too fast. Choosing the better part of valor, he hit his brakes—slowing himself down and effectively falling out of contention.

  Dick could see Barbara turn to look at him. Showing no sign of recognition, she turned back to the finish line and gunned her engine. He did the same.

  Barbara flew over the line, Dick a hair behind her. Then both of them shot over the edge of the unfinished bridge into the air, soaring high above the watery gap.

  Dick’s front wheel hit the metal roadway on the other side of the gap. Spinning rubber caught cold, hard steel. Ho
me free, he looked back to see about Barbara.

  Unfortunately, her back wheel hadn’t cleared the road surface. It had hit the roadway’s front edge. Barbara’s bike was losing purchase, slipping backward over the brink.

  In one motion, Dick ditched his still-moving bike and his helmet. Then he leaped toward the edge of the roadway as Barbara’s bike finally slipped. She and her hog both tumbled into the abyss.

  Straining, Dick stretched out as far as he could. His hand reached out and caught Barbara’s ankle. Then his feet sought the lip of the bridge.

  For a moment, it wasn’t clear—even to Dick—if he’d caught the lip. As if to underline the question, Barbara’s helmet fell off and plunged into the dark waters after her bike.

  But they didn’t. They dangled there, Dick hanging from one foot as he supported both their weights.

  “So this is where you hang out,” he quipped.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The night before, at the tunnel run, Barbara had been exhilarated, flushed with victory. Though she’d won this race as well, her feelings at the moment were completely different.

  “. . . eighteen-fifty, nineteen hundred, nineteen-fifty, two thousand,” said Banker. As Spike looked on, he handed her the last of the crumpled fifty-dollar bills. “Don’t spend it all in one place, girlfriend.”

  Unfortunately, she thought, she would have to do just that. Turning, she saw that Dick had righted his bike and was waiting for her across the street. With a sigh of resignation, she approached him.

  “I could have made it,” Barbara told him, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself. “I didn’t need your help, you know.”

  He shrugged carelessly. “Whatever you say, lady. It’s all in a day’s work for me.”

  She offered Dick her winnings. “Here. This is a down payment on the bike I lost. I’ll get you the rest.”

  Dick looked at the money, then shook his head. “Nah. Keep it.”

  Barbara frowned. “Of course. Dick Grayson, ward of the fabulously wealthy Bruce Wayne. Why would you need a few hundred dollars? You probably tip that much at lunch.”

  “Hey,” said Dick, holding his hands out in an appeal for reason, “what’s your problem? I didn’t bite you, I saved your life.”