Batman 4 - Batman & Robin

by Michael Jan Friedman

  She had to admit he had a point. “All right. My apologies. I guess the truth is I’m not comfortable with the idle rich. Even when they try to act like heroes.”

  He absorbed that, then patted the back of his seat. “Well, you better get comfortable real fast, sister. ’Cause we’ve only got one bike between us now, and it’s a long walk home.”

  Needless to say, she chose the ride. It wasn’t so bad, either. Dick knew Gotham a lot better than she did, and he took them down a couple of scenic routes she would otherwise have missed.

  By the time they got back to Wayne Manor, she felt more gratitude than resentment. And more relief than embarrassment.

  When they reached the garage, they dismounted. “So what’s this Three-Jump stuff?” Dick asked.

  “A race I got into in London,” she explained. “It’s a long story.”

  He eyed her. “So who am I talking to? Ms. Oxbridge or Three-Jump? Who are you really?”

  “Both,” she said. “Neither. I don’t really know.”

  A funny expression came over Dick’s face. “You’d be amazed at just how common that is around here.”

  “I started racing after my parents died,” Barbara explained, entirely without provocation. She believed she owed him that. “There was something about the speed, the danger, that took me out of myself—that made the hurt go away for a while.”

  He looked at her, declining to comment.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

  Dick quirked a sad, little smile. “You’d be surprised.”

  Encouraged, she went on. “Street racing isn’t an acceptable major at Oxbridge. They kicked me out. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve won enough money to do what I’ve always dreamed.”

  He regarded her narrow-eyed. “Just don’t tell me you’re hoping to run away and join the circus.”

  Barbara left the garage and headed for the entrance to the house. Dick walked along with her.

  “Uncle Alfred has supported me my whole life,” she said. “Given me everything I needed. Now I’m going to pay him back. I’m going to liberate him from his dismal life of servitude.”

  Dick laughed. “What are you talking about?” Suddenly, he seemed like the rich boy again.

  She felt herself growing indignant. “Servants, masters . . . it’s ridiculous,” she told him. “Alfred is the sweetest, most noble man alive, and he’s subjugated all his life and dreams to someone else.”

  As they walked into the darkened house, her companion shook his head. “Alfred and Bruce aren’t like that. They’re more like family.”

  Barbara made a sound of disdain. “Paying someone to prepare your meals and do your laundry and clean your dishes, to wait on you hand and foot—you call that family?”

  Dick shrugged. “Alfred’s happy here.”

  “Happy.” She shook her head bitterly. “You honestly don’t know, do you? You can’t even see what’s in front of your eyes?”

  They had reached the stairway. Dick stared at her, clearly at a loss.

  “Look at his skin,” said Barbara. “At how he’s hiding the pain all the time. Can’t you see it? Alfred’s sick.”

  Dick’s brow creased, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, absorbing what was obviously a revelation to him.

  Leaving him that way, she ran up the stairs.

  Dick stared after Barbara as she took the stairs two at a time. Alfred, he thought . . . sick? It didn’t seem to want to sink in.

  “Alfred’s not sick.”

  He whirled and saw it was Bruce who had spoken. The older man was standing in the shadows beside the stairs. Emerging from the darkness, he sat down on the lowest step.

  “He’s not?” Dick said hopefully.

  Bruce shook his head. “No. He’s dying.” A pause. “And I can’t seem to deal with it.”

  The boy felt a wave of emotion coming on. He swallowed it back. “But he never said a word—”

  “You know Alfred. He’d never say anything. But I can tell.” Bruce’s eyes glinted in the darkness, reflecting some faraway light. “Until you came along, Alfred was the only family I ever had. I don’t know how I would have survived without him. He saved my life, Dick. And I never told him.”

  Dick could feel the weight on Bruce’s shoulders as if it were on his own. “Talk to him,” he advised. “Tell Alfred how you feel. There’s nothing worse than losing someone without . . .”

  He had to stop. There was a lump in his throat.

  “. . . without telling them how you feel,” he got out.

  For what seemed like a long time, Bruce sat there at the bottom of the steps, looking more like a little boy than the larger-than-life Batman, protector of Gotham.

  “I know,” he said at last.

  Mr. Freeze knelt in his cell, careful to remain within the parameters of the antithermic field that had been specially designed for him, and crafted a tiny ice sculpture of his wife. Lifting the miniature gearworks from an alarm clock on the floor beside him, he placed the ice statuette on top of it.

  Then he flicked a switch and watched the sculpture begin to turn.

  That’s when he heard the sound of footsteps down the hall. Quickly, he covered the ice figure with a drinking glass.

  “Hey, Icehead!” shouted a guard as he poked his head into view. “Want a drink?” He produced a water pitcher and a cup. “Incoming.”

  Laughing, the guard tossed a cupful of water at Freeze. Predictably, the liquid turned to a hunk of snow as it crossed the energy field—and hit the prisoner in the face.

  Dispassionately, Freeze gathered the frost and used it to add a detail to the sculpture. He glanced at the guard.

  “Your death will be a slow one,” he said flatly.

  “Yeah. And the Knights’ll win the World Series. Dream on, Snowflake.”

  A tone sounded. The guard picked up his intercom earphone and plugged it in. Listening for a beat, he walked over to a control panel set into the wall and hit a button.

  “You got a visitor,” he told the prisoner. “Looks like your sister’s here to see you.”

  “Sister?” echoed Freeze. He had no sister.

  Then another guard showed up, followed by a woman in a green cloak. Freeze had seen her before, at the Flower Ball. What was her name again?

  Ah yes. Poison Ivy.

  Chuckie Kochman had been a guard at Arkham for nearly three years. He thought it was the greatest job in the world.

  Of course, not all the other guards shared his enthusiasm. They had to watch the prisoners, make sure they were fed and clothed, and go after them when they tried to get away.

  Which, for some reason, happened an awful lot.

  But Chuckie’s job was different. It was up to him to keep track of the lockup where the prisoners’ personal effects were kept.

  In the lockup, it seemed like every day was Halloween. Hanging on this rack were the Mad Hatter’s threads. Hanging there was the Riddler’s outfit, somewhere else the Scarecrow’s.

  And in another place, the latest entry—the big, silver playsuit worn by the esteemed Mr. Freeze.

  Like they really needed someone to guard the stuff. Like the suits were going to dust themselves off and go release the guys who used to wear them. Like Chuckie might, even once, have to turn off the TV to do something more strenuous than reach for some cheese puffs.

  Speaking of which . . .

  The glare of the television on his face, Chuckie reached back and grabbed another handful of puffs. He loved this show, the one where the dad was Frankenstein and the grandfather was a fat old vampire and the little boy was a werewolf in short pants.

  And the dad, the Frankenstein guy, was so big and so clumsy he could break a wall just by stumbling into it.

  Of course, even that guy would have had a hard time breaking into Chuckie’s lockup. The walls here in Arkham’s basement were made of concrete a foot thick. And the only window to the hallway was a little barred one, barely big enough to see through.


  Chuckie tossed back the cheese puffs, then brushed off his hands. Greatest job in the world, all right.

  Suddenly, something crashed through the concrete wall beside him and grabbed him by the throat. He groped for his gun, but something grabbed him by the wrist then as well.

  A pair of hands. Huge, powerful hands.

  As his air was cut off and his face started to swell with constricted blood, Chuckie caught a glimpse of a black leather mask and a pair of bloodshot eyes—the scariest eyes he had ever seen.

  Then the hand around his throat strangled the life out of him.

  Ivy attracted her share of scrutiny from the inmates as she negotiated Arkham’s infamous maximum-security corridor. There were catcalls and whistles, which was more or less what she expected.

  What she didn’t expect—what she found slightly unnerving, she had to admit—were the silent cells. The ones from which all she got were furtive stares. And in one case, a smacking of the lips.

  Still, she took it as a compliment. Even more so when she considered how little of her they actually saw, with her hat, her cloak, and her dark glasses concealing her charms as much as anything could.

  The two guards escorting her the length of the cell block weren’t affected the way the inmates were. But then, they’d probably seen a woman sometime in the last several months. Many of the men behind these triple-thick steel doors would have drooled over Gossip Gerty.

  “I love you,” chortled a drooling specimen in a strait-jacket. “Let’s do dinner. And then breakfast.”

  At one of the barred openings in the cell doors, all she saw was the glint of a mirror in an empty top hat. And a big, curious eyeball reflected in it, staring hungrily at her.

  “Won’t you join the dance?” asked a voice from inside the same cell. A harsh, gravelly voice. “Or at least tell me, like a good little girl . . . why is a raven like a writing desk?”

  “Hey, Buster,” bellowed another inmate, red-faced with indignation. “I ask the riddles around here!”

  “Riddle me this, ya freakin’ nutjob!”

  “Shut up, the whole two of ya!”

  “Pay no attention to them,” said yet another of the inmates—a man with a dark, curly beard. His voice was that of a man used to being obeyed. “Open this door, my sweet. Free me from Hades and I’ll place you beside me on Olympus. We’ll make my wife Hera jealous as all get-out.”

  Ivy smiled inwardly at their antics. Good, she thought. Let them eat their hearts out.

  Before long, she and her escort came to Mr. Freeze’s cell. By then, she thought, her henchman should have been well about his business.

  The guards opened the door and let her in, then joined her. Freeze was standing in a circle of shimmering light in the center of the cell, eyeing all three of them warily.

  The guards sealed the door with a special key and remained there. “Don’t mind us, ma’am,” one of them snickered. “Go ahead and converse as freely as you like.”

  Apparently, there was no privacy to be had in a place like this. Oh well, she thought. She would create her own.

  Ivy sized up the guards, then approached them. “I don’t mind you at all,” she told them.

  She removed her hat and sunglasses, revealing her in tensely green eyes. The guards’ eyes opened wide in return.

  “You’re not all that attractive,” she went on, pulling her hair out of its bun so it could fall around her shoulders. “Pretty average, I’d say. But your fantasies aren’t average, are they?”

  Ivy began to saunter around the room. Little by little, teasing them, she shed her cloak to reveal her skintight green costume.

  “Your fantasies are anything but average,” she continued. “The things you think about late at night when you’re all alone. I understand them. I want them. I am them.”

  Her circuit around the room brought her back to the guards. They were thoroughly mesmerized.

  “Men,” she sighed. “The most absurd of all God’s creatures. We women give you life, and we can take it back just as easily.”

  Ivy took one guard’s chin in each of her hands. Then she leaned in close enough to plant a kiss.

  “What if I told you one kiss from me would kill you?” she asked.

  “Right,” said one guard.

  “Whatever,” said the other.

  “I really am to die for,” she remarked.

  Then she kissed them, both of them, each in turn. There was a moment of pure, undiluted bliss on their faces. Then they choked, fell to their knees, and died horribly.

  Freeze nodded from his circle of light. “Impressive.”

  Ivy looked at him and smiled seductively. “Well, I, my most Unabominable Snowman, have been impressed by you. In fact, I propose a pairing. And in the interest of that pairing, I’m here to set you free.”

  Freeze considered her. “An enticing offer,” he decided. “But what does the lady want in return?”

  What indeed? she thought. But this was neither the time nor the place.

  “Let’s cool it for now,” she told him reluctantly. “There’s someone I would like you to meet.”

  Ivy knelt and unhooked the key from the guard’s belt. Then she used it to unlock the door. It opened. Right on cue, Bane walked in, carrying Freeze’s silver thermosuit. Then Ivy sealed the door behind him.

  “His name is Bane,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Freeze. “A laundry service that delivers. Thank you, Mr. Bane.”

  Bane didn’t answer. He just tossed the suit to Freeze through the boundaries of the cryonic field. Snatching it out of the air, Freeze began to pull it on eagerly.

  “I love that belt,” Ivy told him frankly. “What are you, about a fifty big and tall?”

  Freeze chuckled dryly. “I always go a size smaller,” he said. “Makes me look slimmer.”

  He glanced at the various components of his suit, checking them off one by one. Everything seemed to be in order until he inspected his watchlike status display. Then his expression changed.

  Ivy looked at the device herself and saw that Freeze was on auxiliary power. Dangerously low, no doubt.

  Freeze opened his sleeve compartments. They were empty.

  He muttered a curse. “They’ve confiscated my generator diamonds. I’m running on empty.”

  Outside, they could hear the shouts of approaching guards. Soon, the flame of a laser torch could be seen cutting around the perimeter of the cell’s steel door.

  Ivy hit the pump on Bane’s back. Milky white Venom flowed through his tubes and surged into his system.

  Bane lifted his fists and tried to smash the wall farthest from the entrance. It didn’t break.

  She shook her head. “Not good. Not good at all.”

  They heard the shouts of more guards coming down the hall. Freeze reached for his holster—obviously out of instinct, because it was empty.

  “No gun,” he muttered. “How disarming.”

  Ivy frowned. What was the worst that could happen? she asked herself. “I wonder if I can get a cell with a view of the gardens?”

  Freeze shook his head. “Don’t despair, dear Daisy.” Having said that, he left the shelter of his antithermic field and crossed to a sink protruding from the cell wall.

  He turned on the cold water. Then, cracking his gauntlet seal, he caused cryo-gas to come hissing out.

  Freeze glanced back over his shoulder at Ivy. “What a boon is cold, for it allows a thing’s true potential to be revealed. Take simple water—soft, pliant, ever so yielding. But freeze it and it grows resistant. Powerful. Harder than steel itself.”

  He aimed his gas jet at the spigot. One by one, the pipes around the room began to freeze, to frost over, to bulge—the frozen water within them finally splitting the metal. And the whole effect rushed headlong toward the stone wall opposite the door.

  All at once, the wall began to crack. To crumble. More and more, until great chunks fell out of it, revealing the starry night sky outside Freeze’s little cell.

&
nbsp; Ivy took a step toward the opening and saw that they were in a turreted tower, far above the black and mysterious Gotham River.

  “I hate heights,” she groaned.

  On the other side of the cell, the door flew off its hinges. The guards wouldn’t be far behind.

  “You’ll hate prison more,” Freeze advised her.

  She supposed he was right. Holding her nose, she jumped.

  As far as she could tell, Freeze and Bane were right behind her, plummeting toward the fast-rushing waters below.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bruce was walking with Alfred through the expansive first floor of Wayne Manor, shutting off the lights that hadn’t already been shut off. He glanced at the man who had been mother and father to him, and it hurt him to think that man was in pain.

  Alfred must have noticed his scrutiny, because his eyes slid toward Bruce. Along with his brows, they formed a question. “Sir?”

  The younger man answered it with a question of his own. “Are you all right, Alfred?”

  The butler thrust out his chin. He had to see that his jig was up—that there was no further possibility of hiding it. “As well as can be expected,” he replied stoically.

  Bruce sighed. “Alfred, I know you’re sick. I can get you the best doctors. Anyone you need.”

  His friend—his oldest friend—shook his head. “I’ve already seen the best doctors, sir.” And then: “A gentleman does not discuss his health. It’s not civilized. I hope I’ve taught you that much, Master Bruce.”

  Bruce bit back a bitter smile. He knew better than to push Alfred when he was in this frame of mind.

  Silence, as they turned off the lights in the living room. Then in the home office. And the parlor.

  Finally, they got to the stairs. Bruce’s room was on the second floor, Alfred’s on the first. It was where they parted company.

  “Will there be anything else?” the butler asked dutifully.

  “A question,” Bruce replied. “Alfred, have you ever regretted your life working here?”

  The older man looked at him—and smiled. “Attending to heroes? No, sir. My only regret is that I was never able to be out there with you.”