No title

By Christopher J. Priest and Michael Ahn O riginal Green L antern character created b y M artin Nodell

J ibooks, inc. new york www.ibooks.net DISTRIBUTED BY SIMON £t SCHUSTER, INC.

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he Palace at Whitehall, London, 1630 “Your Highness, I beg you to reconsider... ” Surrounded by courtiers and servants, the most powerful

man in the world languished on his throne in the heart of the great hall. His skin chalky white, he appeared as thin, weak and emaciated as a South London urchin. The king of England wore a bland, neutral expression on his gaunt face as Lord Wolverton kneeled before him, eyes beseeching. Stroking his long, sparse goatee, King Charles appeared to be deep in thought. He opened his mouth as if to respond to Wolverton’s entreaty, but instead let loose with a vicious, wet sneeze. His servants were quick to aid the sickly king with handkerchiefs and poultice but he quickly waved them away, and turned to address another lord begging his attention. This was the young king’s manner of telling Lord Wolverton that his position on the matter would not be altered. Lord Wolverton was fleshy and damp with perspiration, his eyes

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flicking about, his mind racing for the right words to speak. Although he was not terribly old, his responsibilities as an aristocrat in Charles’ court had aged him beyond his years. In fact, no one near the king seemed to have the blessing of good health. This included the monarch himself. Charles appeared to be physically and mentally weak, with a blandness about him that made him appear to always be suffering from some ailment. Wolverton suspec­ ted that it was a ploy to avoid direct discourse, or more likely a tactic to hide his perpetual stammer. But worst of all was Charles’ vanity and absolute belief in his being infused with the will of God. This was his rationale for tyranny. The king of England, with great arrogance and with a simple, slowly spoken utterance, had just set into motion the violent, pre­ mature deaths of thousands of his subjects. Doing this behind a sneeze and a ruffled silk kerchief infuriated Wolverton. What the king had said was, “Wolverton, I put it upon you to end the treachery and insurrection by the blasphemous Scots. You will proceed in the manner as was employed on the continent.” The second sentence was in reference to Charles’ earlier folly, sending armies to aid the Protestant rebels in France. Of course this aid was a thinly veiled bid to gain a portion of Europe as part of his kingdom. It was on French soil that Wolverton had developed his talent for warfare without mercy: he had seen that his men killed the wounded, prisoners, innocents, even livestock—all in a bid to terrify the population. Charles was delighted by the results and privately rewarded Wolverton with his own army, an abundance of gold to arm them, and land to garrison and train them. He became

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a fearsomely useful motivator for Charles and was well rewarded for his dedicated service as the king’s most brutal enforcer. But Charles’ command to Wolverton to exert the same will on his homeland, on his own kind—to build an army to put down the treasonous Scots rebelling in the north-filled Wolverton with trepidation. He feared that more bloodshed would only deepen the rift between the king and Parliament, creating a greater risk of civil war. And if the king were to be defeated, Wolverton would surely be destroyed as well. This made him less than eager to follow through with Charles’ wish to annihilate those who would be loyal to Parliament. Wolverton had rationalized his brutal action on the continent by considering his foes less than human. To kill a Huguenot or Spaniard was nothing more or less than slaying a vicious cur: Wolverton even came to enjoy the act. During those lost wars, brutality was his sport and he was champion. But Wolverton was not sure he had the stomach to unleash such carnage on his own people. “But your grace... I’m unsure that my men will be ready... some may balk at the action... ” Wolverton said. Charles was now staring directly up, as if in supplication. Like aping fools, the courtiers in waiting followed the king’s gaze upward. But he was not praying; instead he was staring at the paintings upon the ceiling he had commissioned from Rubens. Charles smiled beatifically, enjoying the massive depiction of his father in the light of glory bestowed by God, a ruler by divine right. Wolverton had seen it many times and he did not bother to look again. He was sick of it, just as he was sick of this great chamber and this king. Yet he was too weak in spirit to resist the king’s will,

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which made his self-loathing deep and molten. He thought to himself how men who were stamped with petty cruelty quickly become the stuff of their tormentors. He could feel himself blushing as he stood awaiting some further response from the king. King Charles finally brought his eyes down to stare sleepily at Wolverton through hooded lids, a slight sneer smeared across his face. He spoke slowly, as if congested and sleepy. “Is your continued presence before me one of contrariness, Wolverton?” The pale, sweating aristocrat struggled to alter his expression from exasperation to smiling indulgence. He needed to be careful. King Charles was especially sensitive to being patronized and many a courtier had lost his head through thinly disguised disagreement with the king’s wishes. To move freely within the walls of Whitehall, one had to be an actor of Burbage’s caliber, and Wolverton burned at being reduced to this idiotic, deceitful charade of manners, like a lowly player at Stratford-Upon-Avon. “Certainly not, your Highness. I am and always will be your humble servant.” “I’ve given you land, money, and the authority to build my army. If you cannot carry out the wishes of God and king, there are many commanders that would have your place.” Charles said this slowly, his struggle to deliver the words without a stutter also giving them a menacing emphasis. The courtiers—Wolverton’s peers—looked on, enjoying Wolverton’s discomfort at the hands of the king. “I understand, your Highness. By the grace of God, I will destroy the traitors.” “God and I expect nothing less, Wolverton.” His face flushed with humiliation, Wolverton bade the king

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farewell with a flourishing bow and backed away. Charles simply ignored him and lent his ear to the concerned whisperings of the archbishop, sure and eager to hatch yet another conspiracy. Once he was clear of the king’s hall, Wolverton stormed heavily through the corridors to his waiting horse, his heavy bootsteps echoing through the ornately decorated palace rooms. It sickened Wolverton that he was compelled to do the king’s bidding, for the benefit of England, and to put up a good face doing so. If the king’s subjects knew the true extent of their leader’s weakness in mind and body, the kingdom would be fraught with rebellion. Wolverton cursed himself for tying his future and the future of his heirs inexorably to this shallow, weak-minded shell of a being he was obliged to call “Highness.” Wolverton slammed open the studded doors, startling the members of his party. He had made up his mind to follow the king’s orders. If men die for a ruler’s arrogance, so be it. He himself could not and never would be king. Truly, he would be lucky to keep his head and his land. Yes, damn it, so be it: If he was to maintain his power and his fortune, he would destroy the Scottish rebels with terrible force. If the king wanted a rebellion quelled, Wolverton would leave no man, woman or child in the path of this goal unharmed. He would be fury incarnate: vengeance by divine right. The ride home, north through the low empty hills and bonechilling forests, was exhausting and fraught with peril. Yet Wolver­ ton rode with reckless speed, with no regard for his mount or his men, who struggled to keep pace. Wolverton had an army to raise and little time to do so. After hours of relentless riding, the young lord was relieved to

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see the warm glowing lights of his manor through the heavy forest fog. His immediate desire at this time of night was to pull off his boots and sit before the fire, drinking something warm and intoxicating. And more than anything, he wanted to see Marie, smell the oily richness of her dark hair and taste her salty skin. She was one of the few whose lives he had spared during the bloody siege at La Rochelle. Her family murdered by his men, herself almost dead from famine, Wolverton stopped his yeomen from cutting her throat and swept her up onto his horse. She became his trophy, and he brought his prize back to England. A captive in a strange land, the young girl knew that she lived only by Wolverton’s whim, and he took great pleasure in her knowledge of this. There had been several before her, and she knew she would not be the last. Alone with Marie, he could unleash the world’s torment, exorcising the demons of his everlastingly damned soul.

The young chambermaid heard the trampling of his horse’s hooves on the pebbled carriageway and trembled in loathing and misery. Lord Wolverton would insist on her attending him in his chambers. Her English was not good, but she understood enough to have gleaned through overheard conversations that his subjects hated him and he was despised by the officers of his regiment. Of course, like so many who wield power sloppily, he had no idea that he was perceived as a sadistic instrument to a pompous, tyrannical king. She also found him repulsive in the most base, innate ways. His chin was weak, his flesh soft, yet he was nevertheless strong enough

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to hurt her until she was numb from pain and despair. To be alone with him was a living nightmare. As his prisoner, she had no illusion of her place in this world. She was property to be enjoyed at Wolverton’s whim until either she became pregnant or he grew bored of her. Either circumstance would be the cause of her death and her replacement by a fresh, new innocent. One of those circumstances had become reality. She touched her belly, knowing that a child grew within her, sealing her fate. But she did have an option, and while it had not been open to her before, her tolerance for Wolverton’s tastes was diminishing, and the viability of exercising it began to gain prominence in her thoughts. Hurrying to light the lamps along the tapestry-lined hallway leading to the lord’s chamber, the young maid shivered with dread as she heard the oaken door slam open, followed by the clatter of boot heels and the heavy rustling of leather riding coats. The young lord’s sharp shouts told Marie that things had not gone well on his journey. And experience taught her that he would be especially harsh on her tonight. Worse, were he to discover that she was with child. She heard the lord’s shouts of displeasure at a poor stable boy and Marie trembled at the echoes of Wolverton’s coarse words and the awful snap of his leather riding crop flaying the lad’s skin. The flame trembled as she lit the candle. Then it went out. She took this as an omen. She knew she could not take another night with him. The open window beckoned. The dark and wet of the rain-soaked countryside was a comfort

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to Marie. She had been raised in the woods and its mysteries held no fear for her. At first she tramped through the forest aimlessly, shivering and soaked, until the spitting rain let up and she was drawn to a deep, rushing roar. The sleeves of her bodice tore on unseen thorns as she stumbled toward the sound of her salvation. Finally she broke through the bramble to the silveiy sheen of a small river, its banks engorged by the runoff from the storm. She dipped her hands into the fierce current and brought a handful of the icy water to her mouth to drink. The water began somewhere in the high moors and emptied a mile downstream into a larger river before making its way to the sea. And somewhere across that sea was her homeland. The memories of the ocean’s vastness, the magnificence of its dominion captivated her mind. She remembered walking along its shores as a child, daydreaming, watching the fishermen unload their bounty, the breakers of the low tide rolling gently onto the long stretch of beach. The ocean had always called to her. And now, little more than a child, she was determined to see it finally and forever. She could hear dogs and shouts behind her. Wolverton had wasted no time in sending his men to hunt her down. She stared into the dark, flowing water. Then she waded in, gasping at it coldness. As she lifted off the bottom muck, the current tore her slippers from her feet. She could feel the silky softness of the sand and mud beneath her toes, the smoothness of pebbles. No more Wolverton. No more fear.

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Marie moved in up to her waist, the skirt billowing like a cloud drowning in the moonlit torrent. The rushing water was louder now, fiercer. She became afraid. She wanted death, but not dying. Then she heard the barking of the dogs. More steps, then suddenly deeper, to her breasts, armpits, over her shoulders, the current pulling at her at first playfully, then relentlessly, cruelly and mindlessly, like Wolverton. Then she was under water, the river taking her, spinning her, tumbling, hurling. She struggled at first, fighting for air only to breathe in water and choke on it, struggling like an animal, arms and legs flailing, then spinning, surrendering and opening her eyes. It was so dark, terrifying and strange, and all she felt now was sadness and the pity of having lived without joy. Sadness at the loss of her child. The last thing she saw before consciousness left was green. Glowing green.

Marie awakened to neither heaven nor hell, only a mighty roar. She felt no joy at being alive. She felt nothing at all. This must be purgatoiy, she told herself, and why not? It was against God’s will to waste life. She sat up to sand beneath her hands. She looked around in the pre-dawn light and saw that there was miles of it. And before her, mighty and powerful, benign yet capable of such unimaginable power, lay the ocean. She touched her h a ir-it was wet. Her lips were salty. How had she come this far? How had she survived? The roar that awakened her was coming from the sky—a meteor was flaming through the sky in a arc of green light and flame. It

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fell from the heavens and crashed into the ocean, a mighty plume of water rising from the surface of the sea. Marie was in awe of the immense force of the water rising from the surface of the ocean, then falling back heavily onto itself. Where the object had impacted, the water churned as if boiling, the foam effervescent and spreading. Then she saw a green light in the roaring surf. Something was coming out of the water. In the half-light of the dawn, the glow swung to and fro, and she was mesmerized by its approach. It came closer to her and only when it was a few feet away could she see that it was attached to the ring of a man. And she saw that the man was not ordinary. He was twice the size of a normal man, his skin a pale blue with muscles rippling and eyes alive with an intellect that was neither of this world nor this time. His garments were ripped, his face freshly scarred. This monster/demon stood over her, his chest heaving from the effort of emerging from the sea. Then he bent down to her. Marie fell back in the sand, terrified. She neither screamed nor fought. She was beyond survival. She simply awaited her fate.

CHAPTER

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olverton Manor, East Yorkshire, 1648 Lord Wolverton held the parchment in his trembling hands, and did not notice when it fell to the granite floor.

Two decades of war against the Scots had taken its toll on the commander, and now that full-blown civil war was being lost to the Scots and parliamentarians; Wolverton’s worst fears were being realized. The writing on the parchment was the summation of those fears. None of his officers bothered to pick it up, nor did they make eye contact or offer any interest in the old man’s tearful reaction to the message. Gossip had preceded the news and they were all delighted. After years of bloody civil war waged with gusto by Wolverton, the king was sentencing Wolverton to be executed for some trivial slight. Of course, this was an appeasement, face-saving by King Charles to the Roundheads loyal to the Parliament that was now defeating him. In exchange for peace, he would give the Roundheads the butcher

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of their kinsmen and families. The man who had led campaign after bloody campaign against men, women and children for year after tortuous year of civil war. Wolverton had served King Charles impressively. The lord had exceeded his expectations for waging a totally savage campaign, to the point where his enemies despised Wolverton even more than the king himself. How fortunate that Charles had Wolverton’s head to offer up to the Puritans. Wolverton’s mind was reeling. After decades of good and faithful service to the king, fighting the war as if it were his own cause, his life was tossed away as a chit in a political bargain. He wept bitterly at the irony of this. He wanted desperately to believe that there had been some kind of misunderstanding. But none of his officers would offer support in any way. However, one young cavalier was as unhappy about the news as was Wolverton, perhaps even more. He stepped forward and picked up the parchment. The lord stared at the young, battle-hardened officer before him. The man was of massive proportions, with dark hair that flowed to his shoulders and a fierce brow over black eyes. Everything about the man radiated brute strength, as if the wool and brass of the uniform could barely contain his power. The officer handed the parchment to his lord, bowing deeply as he did. “You have my sympathies, my lord,” said the black-maned soldier. Wolverton cast a cold eye on the speaker. “Who the devil are you?” “One, my lord,” he said, “who has long had the honor of serving in your army.”

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“From where do you hail?” “Why, from here, sir.” “Here?” “This region. I am an orphan from the shores, from a nearby fishing village.” “Let me have a look at you,” Wolverton ordered. “You’re as big a bull ox.” The soldier said nothing, but straightened as he took a step towards Wolverton. He demeanor was proper and military, but a glint in his dark eyes hinted at his intent. The aged lord looked the soldier in the eyes. There was something there. He sensed some shared history with the young man before him, a distant familiarity in his face that made Wolverton uneasy. “What is your name?” the older man demanded. “Malvolio, my lord.” “Unusual.” “I named myself-I did not know the name of my mother or father... ” “Yes, yes, yes. You are a bastard. Fine,” Wolverton said with impatience. “Young Malvolio, do you know what the king means to do to me? Fm to be tried for treason. Treason! After all Fve done for God and country!” “An outrage, sir, to be sure. But I stand before you with an alternative to King Charles’ gallows.” The lord bent forward. “You do, eh? Look at me, boy.” The soldier looked into the lord’s filmy eyes. Wolverton squinted, taking a harder look at the soldier. “How did an orphan rise to rank in my army?”

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“I have an aptitude for killing, sir. Like my father,” Malvolio said with a barely concealed smile. “You told me you didn’t know your father.” “I didn’t. But according to legend, my father was a cruel man, bereft of mercy and deserving of no fate but damnation.” “And what legend would this be?” Malvolio spoke as though reciting by rote, and as he did so his eyes reflected the power of the memory. “Since she gave birth to me, my mother never uttered a word. She lay in bed with her eyes wide open but she could not see, nor did she respond to sound. The legend was that she was found by fishermen in this condition, on the shores of the sea. No one knew where she came from, nor did they know at the time that she was with child. It was believed that she was the victim of horrible, unnatural acts put upon her, acts so terrifying as to put her permanently in her private purgatory. She had fits of fright and would thrash about as if warding off an attacker. I remember as a young boy witnessing her tossing about, her hands like claws scratching the air, her mouth contorted to silent screams, her eyes fixed on her unseen tormentor. I was driven to find the cause of her pain. The only evidence of her past that I had was this... ” The soldier held open his palm -a small pearl-colored pendant lay in his huge hand. “I didn’t ask for your history, boy.” “I beg your indulgence, my lord. It has great bearing on our fates. When I was of age I joined the ranks of your army and, having proven myself in battle, I became an officer. And by chance of having met officers in your regiment, I finally discovered the identity

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of my mother. You see, one of them saw this pendant and recognized it.” Malvolio placed the small pendant in the lord’s trembling hand. “Open it.” Something in Malvolio’s voice made the request irresistible. The lord held up the locket and, fingers trembling, snapped it open. Resting inside was the faded image of a young woman, his long-lost prize from La Rochelle. “Marie!” he uttered, her memory returning to him in a flood. The pendant slipped from Wolverton’s trembling hands. Before it hit the ground, Malvolio snatched it from the air. He held the spinning pendant before the old lord, watching it sway from its chain. “This was my mother, whom you had enslaved and raped and tortured. And I am the product of the misery inflicted upon her by you. And now by the grace of God, I am here to avenge her suffer­ ing.” “You are... my son?” “Aye, we share the same blood,” Malvolio said. “And I have only one thing to thank you for... the ability to kill without remorse. I’ve come to avenge my mother. And I’ll be damned if I let my vengeance be usurped by King Charles.” Malvolio’s eyes were blazing with hatred. He placed a hand on the battle-worn pommel of his sword. Wolverton stepped away from Malvolio, his eyes wide with fear. “Guards!” Two yeomen stepped forward with the intent to run their pikes through Malvolio’s back. But before they could close, Malvolio

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unsheathed the sword from the scabbard at his side and quicklyspun and parried them, his blade cutting the air with a vicious whistle. Malvolio spun back and with a mighty swing decapitated one guard. And before the unfortunate soldier’s body hit the ground, his compatriot was dead as well, the sword run through his ribs, piercing his heart and severing his spine. Malvolio turned back to Wolverton, who was falling backwards over his calfskin chair. Wolverton stared into Malvolio’s eyes. The aging lord stumbled backwards. “You’re mad... ” Wolverton stammered. The soldier stood upright, muscles rippling under the uniform. A jackal’s grin broke across his face, the blood of the soldiers dripping from the gleaming blade of the sword. “I’m Malvolio.” He lifted the sword in the air, then bringing it down diagonally with a whistling fury, he cleaved Lord Wolverton’s head, neck, right shoulder and arm from the rest of his body. The lower portion of the body flopped back in the worn calfskin chair, fountains of blood pulsing from the severed arteries. The upper portion of Wolverton’s body slid to the floor, washing the king’s proclamation in spurts of rich red blood.

The dank cell was no worse than a thousand places Malvolio had bedded, and he was content to await his execution. He could hear other condemned men moving in shackles about the courtyard, along with the noisy shuffling of the bold rats with whom he shared his space. Having killed so many, he was comfortable with the trappings of death. Even his own.

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The scuttling of the rats became suddenly frantic as an unnatural green glow bathed the uneven rock walls. Malvolio was forced to avert his eyes from the brilliant emerald light emanating before him. “What manner of sorcery is this?” he demanded of no one. Mal­ volio rose to his feet. The light diminished and Malvolio’s eyes opened wide at the sight before him in the small cell of a huge figure that seemed to emerge from nowhere. The being’s skin was an unearthly shade of blue, the eyes cold and intelligent. His huge frame was much like Malvolio’s own, but despite his formidable bearing this being appeared worn and weary, like a traveler far from home. Malvolio stared at the man-creature before him. He saw that the green light pulsed from a large ring on the being’s hand. He could not move toward or away from the being because of the shackles cutting into his wrists and ankles. “Who are you?” Malvolio demanded of the strange being. No reply was offered. “Fine. Hold your tongue then,” Malvolio hissed with contempt. “A condemned man on the eve of his death cannot be tormented. My peace has been made.” “With whom?” the being asked in a voice as hollow as a tomb. “What, are you a priest? If so, save your talk of God and heaven for others. I’ve no time or tolerance for such foolishness.” “I have come to set you free.” Malvolio laughed. He held out his shackled hands. “Then you are most welcome, my friend. Do your best. Rescue me.” The being stepped towards Malvolio and took his hands in his.

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Malvolio was amazed to see his huge hands made to seem small by the strange being’s. It gripped the shackle on Malvolio’s left wrist and bent it back until the iron bolt sheared off. Then he did the same to the right shackle and Malvolio’s hands were free. Rubbing his wrists, he looked at the being with new regard. “I ask again—who are you?” “It does not matter,” it told him. “You cannot be made to under­ stand. But I could not stand by to see your life wasted.” “And why is that?” “You are a product of a desperate and unnecessary gesture of my vanity.” Malvolio sat back down. “Do tell.” “I discovered your mother, pregnant and half-drowned in the river, I myself was near death, having been hunted by forces incomprehensible to you. We were thrown together by pure chance. I was in a running battle with these dark forces, a fight that spanned the galaxy. In my bid to escape annihilation I came upon this planet and this lone human on the shores of the sea. I was dying as I came upon her, and her unborn child was the only being that would be able to sustain my life force. As an act of desperation I implanted much of my power within her.” Malvolio stirred at this news and studied the being intently. “You... are saying... you made me?” The weary traveler continued. “I planted this power in you. I expected to perish but fate had me survive. So the act was ultimately futile.” “Futile? It was not futile to me, nor to my mother,” Malvolio said icily.

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“It was wrong for me to do this to the poor creature. The shock destroyed her mind. My madness in implanting my genetic code within you led to her madness. And for that I’m eternally sorry.” “Then what am I?” “You have my genetic history trapped within your human code. The mixture is... unbalanced.” Malvolio cocked his head to one side, contemplating the implica­ tions. “You speak in terms I’ve not heard before. But if I understand you correctly, you and I share the same blood.” “Yes. You’ve inherited my strength but none of the knowledge to utilize it wisely. And the two natures are now warring within you.” Malvolio smiled. It was insane, but at the same time it made perfect sense to him. “This explains a great deal,” he said slowly. “The time has come for us to become one. Together we will har­ ness your great power, and when your education is complete, I will give you this... ” The being removed the green ring from his finger and held it for Malvolio to see. Malvolio touched it, marveling at the power he could feel pulsating from it. The being offered it to Malvolio, He took the ring and placed it on his finger. “Am I to partake of its magic?” “In time. When you have learned how to harness it.” “And what if I choose not to return?” “Then I must leave you here to perish.” Malvolio stepped forward and looked at the being. Something that may have been love, understanding or recognition flashed between them. Malvolio embraced the being that was responsible

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for both his strength and his madness. As he did so, he saw that the ring began to glow. The power surged into him. Malvolio whispered in the Green Lantern’s ear. “I can never forgive you for my mother’s misery,” he said. “I understand that it is your nature,” said the being who in essence was Malvolio’s true father. “But I can give you the ability to forgive.” “I’m not interested in forgiveness. My place is here, and here is where I will stay.” The being looked at Malvolio with sadness, and nodded. “So be it.” Malvolio looked into his father’s eyes. “Yes. So be it.” Malvolio hugged his alien father tighter, the ring glowing as it fed him power. The being struggled but Malvolio’s grasp was deadly tight, and he held him until he could hear the being’s spine and ribs breaking, splintering under the murderous strength being fed to him by the ring. Finally, the being could breathe no longer. His heart and lungs stopped, crushed to a stillness by the lethal compres­ sion of tissue, bones and muscle surrounding it. Malvolio let the dead being fall heavily to the floor. He admired the ring and the blessing of its power. He had long had ambitions. And now, at last, he possessed the power to make them reality.

Lord Malvolio sat astride his steed, watching the glorious pageant of violence being played out on the fields before him. From his vantage on the gentle slope of the hill, he watched his forces, The Army of the Green Light, routing the king’s army, the panicked soldiers fleeing as Malvolio’s men swarmed over them. As the king’s army fled the field, Malvolio contemplated his next step.

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This battle was the climax of Malvolio’s two-year campaign to defeat the king’s army. With his newfound power, he had escaped prison and immediately began to wage his own war for control of England. The Parliamentarians and Royalists had united, at least temporarily, against him, but Malvolio knew that they were ulti­ mately powerless to stop his swath of destruction. So, too, the king’s army, which had degenerated into a panicked, fleeing mob. Malvolio watched with pleasure at their flight from his army and dark magic. Then, to the surprise of Malvolio and his officers, a large contin­ gent of cavalry arrived, galloping over the hummock towards the retreating forces and Malvolio’s pursuing army. The king’s forces paused, then stopped running, as if emboldened to regroup by the sight of their reinforcements. Malvolio recognized the charging cavalry as an elite regiment of the king’s guards. Their appearance on this field of battle so stra­ tegically close to London was, Malvolio knew, the last stand of the desperate ruler. With the destruction of the king’s guards, London would be an open city and the kingdom would be his. He grinned in delight and held his bare fist high, the ring glowing. An unseen wind flowed from the ring, a fantastic wave of concussive force. It slapped down trees and rippled the grass as it traveled at incredible speed towards the hundreds of charging mounted soldiers. Malvolio’s officers watched in awe as the force collided with the cavalry like a great wave striking the bow of a ship. The wave tore through the cavalry, knocking down the horses as if they were made of straw. Animals and men fell in a tumult of bodies. The concussive force killed most of them outright, tearing

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flesh and crushing bone. The few survivors lay dazed by shock, most deaf and blind, blood weeping from eyes, ears, and nostrils. A great cheer erupted from Malvolio’s army. Victory was theirs. His forces, made up of criminals and soldiers-of-fortune, were eager to follow this new leader. It was the finest campaign they’d ever had the pleasure of waging. Lord Malvolio’s magic usually destroyed the enemy’s forces from afar, leaving his men little to do but hunt down and dispatch the survivors. Within weeks, word of his terrible powers swept through England, and the enemy often ran at the sight of Malvolio’s colors. Malvolio, triumphant, raised his fist in the air. A single beam of green light shot from his ring straight into the twilight sky. Mal­ volio’s men recognized this signal and charged forward, ready to destroy the last defense between them and London. Soon, all of England would belong to Malvolio’s Army of the Green Light. Malvolio spurred his steed into a gallop, heading directly toward the king’s colors. They would be the crowning glory to his collection of souvenirs of the vanquished. Within seconds he was riding amidst the destroyed cavalry, trampling the dead and survivors as he rode for the prized pennant. Suddenly his horse reared up, nearly throwing him. Cursing, he steadied the beast and searched for the source of his mount’s fright. Before him stood a little man who had appeared from nowhere, a strange creature with bald head, large eyes and pale skin. This tiny man stood scowling at Malvolio. The warrior unsheathed his sword and raised it, ready to cleave the man in half. But something he saw froze his action.

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The stranger had a ring on his finger, the same green ring as his own. “Malvolio. Your reign is no more,” the little man said. Something in the certainty of his tone told Malvolio that the creature possessed the power to make true his declaration. He steadied his horse as he said, “For that to be true, it will need to be taken from me.” “You are not a true Green Lantern, and not deserving of the power of the ring,” the man said, as through explaining a complex idea to a simpleton. His tone infuriated Malvolio. “The power of the magic that I wield is infinite!” Malvolio warned. “You do not understand. The ring has limitations put upon it to keep its power in check. You were never made aware of those limit­ ations and your unchecked usage of the ring’s power, ignoring its impurities and instabilities, has caused great damage to the fabric of the universe,” the man said. “The power you have unleashed so carelessly has caused a rippling chain of destruction throughout space. Your continued abuse of this power will lead to ultimate obliteration of all that exists. That is why I am here.” Malvolio did not understand what the creature was telling him, nor was he interested. This odd-speaking gnome would not stop him, ring or not. Malvolio raised his hand towards the creature and prepared to blast him from the Earth. The wave of energy flashed from the ring like lightning... ... and Malvolio found himself in darkness. Confused, he looked around. There was no field of battle, no army, nothing but empty, infinite space. Looking down, he saw that he was floating, as if the night sky had wrapped completely around him.

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Before him floated the little man, looking grim and judgmental. Malvolio cried out in fear and rage. “Where am I?” he demanded. “You are in space, in a place unknown by the power of the ring. Because of your usage of the ring’s power, I cannot allow you to stay on Earth. You’ll remain here, guarded by those,” the little man said, pointing to a series of floating, round metallic orbs emanating auras of energy. Malvolio saw that they formed a huge sphere around him, with him floating at its center. “Those warning buoys will contain you within this area and warn any travelers to stay clear of you.” “I am imprisoned?” asked Malvolio in disbelief. “Yes.” “For how long?” “Forever.”

CHAPTER

3 T

en Miles West o f Ward, Colorado, 1939 The sun pounded down on Alan Scott’s face, stabbing at his pupils, forcing him to squint and blink from its sharpness.

Even when he squeezed his eyes shut again, he could feel the sun­ light pressing into him like an accusation. Worse yet, he could not turn away from it. In fact, he could not move at all, and the more he struggled, the more the fear welled up in him and the more frantic he became. His breathing coming quickly, he forced himself to concentrate on the merciless Sun until the panic slowly subsided. And as he gained control of his mind, he set about determining why he didn’t have control of his body. Part of it was simple: something heavy was on his chest, pinning him down, not quite crushing him but making his efforts to breathe more labored. Dust burned his eyes, but he could not free his hands to wipe them. It was the numbness in his lower body that worried him more than any pain. His fear was controllable for the moment, but his

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immobility was filling him with a haunting despair, the source of which he could not quite identify. He tasted the sudden saltiness of his tears. He was embarrassed, until he remembered that there was no one around to witness his weakness. For some reason that made him angry, so he let the anger build up in him and used it to focus his energy. Although his mouth was dry and his tongue swollen, he worked up some saliva and spat. The spit fell back on his cheek, and trickled towards his temple. He was pinned at an angle, on his back, head downward. Rocking upward he pinched his left hand, but the movement back freed it. He discovered he could wriggle his fingers. He tried it again... the hand moved a little more. One more time and his left hand was free, then the right. He touched his face. There was no pain, but lots of blood, some thick and dirt-caked, some fresh. This new discovery created new worries: with the blood flowing to his downward-angled head wound, how long before he passed out? He had to get himself upright. He flexed and shook out his hands, then grabbed the blue sack on his chest and pulled, rocking it off his body until it rolled free and down the dusty rock incline. It was then that he saw that it was not a sack at all, but a man’s body clad in blue dungarees. He couldn’t tell who it was because the upper half of the torso had been ripped away by something heavy and sharp. Scott felt an enormous sadness at the sight. He could sit up but he couldn’t move for the large, telephone-pole size piece of timber

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pressing his legs into the hard earth. He recognized it as one of the spars of the collapsed bridge. His bridge. With the corpse finally off him, Scott forced himself to look around and see how bad the wreck was. The panorama of destruction was breathtaking-the wrecked railroad cars, two camp cars, two supply cars, scaffold car, ballastspreader, rail unloader, pile-driver, locomotive, coal car, and caboose, lay scattered about on the steep incline of the ravine. Across the ravine was what remained of the trestle bridge that Scott had designed and his crew had spent a month building. Scott could see that the network of trestles spanning the ravine had snapped as the train had crossed it, sending the cars plummeting down the deep gully. Scott scanned the splintered bridge trestles, his eyes following the gnarled iron of the tracks bending downward into the ravine like metal spaghetti, the void where the bridge would be were it still standing, and the cars scattered below him on the incline. The violence of the crash had caused the work and supply cars to fracture and splinter as if they were made from balsa wood, flinging their contents down the ravine. He could see the locomotive just thirty yards above him, its boiler wheezing a sad, dying hiss. He did not know how he had survived the wreck. Just a few feet away was the corpse whose dead weight would have suffocated him. Scott wondered about the rest of the two dozen men in his crew. Frye, the sharecropper’s son who had never owned a pair of shoes until Jimmy had brought him in to work, or the Filiberto brothers from Nicaragua who Scott had heard say no more than ten words

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between them in two years and could unerringly path-find out of the deepest forest. Or the Russian they had nick-named Rasputin, who was impervious to the coldest temperatures, had a photographic memory and jet-black pinpoint eyes shining with terrible madness or boisterous mischief, depending on his appetite. These were men who could lift twice what a normal man could, and work full days in sub-zero, wind-whipped cold or stifling one hundred and tendegree jungle humidity. They never complained, never took issue or gave excuses. Scott and his partner Jimmy Shustak had picked up these men as they built bridges all over the world. As Jimmy said, their crew was “a real goddam league of nations,” a team of outsiders and loners. But these men also knew how to build, and even in the worst conditions they were the best: focused, methodical, clever and tough. They did not care about color unless it was the green of money. They shared bunkhouses, food and clothes, hats, dishes, water, and tools. When they went to town they shared liquor, luck, and women. They lost fellows to avalanches, malaria, drowning, and snakebites. And each man’s loss drew the others closer until they became like brothers. Sudden death had made them a family, and now, in one final stroke, this family had ceased to exist. It occurred to Scott that in their effort to finish the bridge he had never stopped to appreciate the beauty of the terrain-the raw glory of the Rocky Mountains: the vertical peaks surrounding the ravine, spring snow sugar-dusted along the barren, knife-edged crests, and down lower, along the tree line of ponderosa and spruce, the railroad tracks cut in and clinging to its sides. Half-buried on the side of the deep ravine, Scott felt like a flea caught in a fold of bed sheet:

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insignificant and unwelcome, a thing to be crushed and flicked away. A few hours ago he had been the conqueror. With the last rail of the trestle laid and the last spike driven, the ravine was an equation he had solved with his bridge. It was a problem of terrain that he had overcome with iron and timber, the clarity of his intellect, and the strength of his crew. Now the iron was twisted, the wood splintered, the crew dead and Scott on his back, pinned under the wreckage of what they had struggled to build. They had been so close. It would have been a sweet deal. He and Jimmy could have paid off the last of their loans, owned their equipment outright, and, above all, cemented their reputation. Jimmy would have fulfilled his dream of having trumped Albert Dekker, their biggest competitor, whom they outbid for this, their biggest job. The contract guaranteed work for Jimmy, Alan and their men for years. It wouldn’t have been easy street, but it would have been damned close. But the dream was carnage now, collapsed like the bridge around him. And Scott was trapped, forced to ponder the possibility that his flawed design caused this catastrophe. Scott took a long, deep breath. He had to be prepared to be here for a while until relief came. The site was reachable by rail, assuming there was a locomotive to bring the rescue team up the grade. But it could be days. He couldn’t afford to go out of his head. Aside from the timbers across his legs, he had dirt under him, but right beneath that was granite bedrock: he could not dig himself out from under the beam. The downslope side of his body pressed

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against a half-buried boulder. Pine needles were scattered about. He had nothing to drink and nothing to dig with. He was hopelessly pinned. He surveyed the wreckage looming precariously above him on the steep slope. The locomotive was tipped frontside down, the front wedged deeply into the side of the ravine. Piled on top of it were the splintered remains of the work cars. Scott could see one of the working cars on its side, its load of wooden rail ties, rebars and dozens of fifty-five-gallon drums of hot tar scattered down the incline. One of the casks on the ridge ten feet above him had split open. Gallons of steaming, molten tar spilled from it and oozed like molasses down the wreckage, dripping into puddles, seeping down the splintered pieces of timber, moving slowly and surely in his direction. Panic moved Scott as he pushed harder against the timber pinning him, not caring about the immediate blunt pain as he tried to rock the pole off his legs. The pain he felt now would be nothing com­ pared to what he would feel when that tar got to him, cooking him alive. The spar pinning Scott would not budge. Spent from the effort to move it, Scott lay on his back, his blond hair streaked with dust, grime and sweat. The gallons of tar continued to drip, puddle and seep down the wreckage. Just a few feet above him now. He’d fought against gravity his entire life. As an engineer, he sought to defy it, to make things stay up. But gravity was giving him a good screwing today. Scott laughed, the sharp bark surprising and scaring him even more than the tears had.

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Tar dripped down on a piece of board above the timber. Scott could see that it was still scalding hot and fluid enough to continue moving. He calculated the speed of the drip and the angle of the board. The tar would be dripping onto his legs in about five minutes. Despair pulsed through him, making him weak, but it wasn’t just from the current predicament. Something from his past was squirming inside him, making his despair childlike, pungent, desper­ ate in a way he hadn't known for a very long time. He could taste the copper tang of fear and panic. Then a memory suddenly slotted into his consciousness. He was nine years old, newly arrived at Willoughby House. He was

filled with

anger—abandoned, unwanted and unloved. Shame smoldered inside him, fueling his defiance, distilling his ferocious anger at everybody and everything. He was quick to take on everyone-the other castoff boys, the teachers, even Headmaster Warden, who terrified all with his bull shoulders and giant cue ball head. But Alan welcomed the punishments and fights, thrived on the little victories against the bigger boys, of seeing the intimidation even in the warden’s eyes as each weathered method of making Alan submit failed. One night, Ben Hartman and Tom Kimmel, two older boys who were fed up with Alan’s arrogance, decided to teach him the oldest lesson in the world. While he slept, they piled on him and pummeled him with fists, knees and feet. Alan did not mind the beating-he was used to th a t-b u t what they did to him next terrified him. Dragging him out of his bed and across the cold linoleum floor, they stuffed him in empty coal bin, slamming the lid shut and sitting on it. The space was as tight as a coffin. He could barely breathe and could not even bring his arms up to his face. As Kimmel sat on

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the lid, Hartmann took the wick out of an unlit lamp and poured the kerosene through one of the slats of the tin box. Alan sniffed the fumes of the liquid soaking into his chest and stomach, knowing instantly what it was and what they intended to do to him. Then the boys lit a match and held it above the slot for Alan to see, waiting for him to beg for mercy, cry uncle and submit. But in spite his primal fright, Scott did not utter a sound. The boys waited, sitting on the lid, giggling and ribbing each other, but they heard nothing and all they saw was Alan’s unblinking eyes staring through the slat. At first they thought Alan might just be stupid, so they took great pains to explain in detail what they intended to do to him. When he did not respond, they lit another match and dangled it above the slat. The match burned itself out, and they lit another, then another. Minutes stretched to a quarter-hour, then a half-hour, and the bullies became puzzled, giving each other the concerned looks of boys who had carried something too far and did not know where else to take it. “Get off.” The two boys turned to see 12 year-old Jimmy Shustak standing barefoot in his holed t-shirt and ripped underwear. He had been watching the whole thing. Rather, the whole thing had been keeping him from a night’s sleep. “What’s it to you?” Kimmel snarled. “Sleep.” “So go sleep,” Hartman said. “Youse’s taking too long with this crud,” replied Shustak. “And if you dumb bastards torch the kid, the screws’ll come barging in here and we’ll be up all night.”

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“Who you callin’ bastards, you greaseball?” Suddenly no longer weary, Jimmy took a step closer, his stubby­ fingered hands balled up in tight, rock-hard, scarred fists. “This one greaseball right here is callin’ you two bastards bas­ tards,” he said matter-of-factly, a glint of malice in his dark eyes. In fact, with the exception of Alan, whose father was dead and mother was locked away in a state mental asylum, “bastard” was less an insult than a description. As for Alan, the knowledge of his mother in the hellish limbo of a nut house—her view of reality crushed by the unfortunate combin­ ation of a fragile psyche, cruel upbringing and relentless hopeless­ ness-fueled both his rage and his obsession for self-control. Kimmel and Hartmann were bullies, but they were mere cogs in a great social order of bullying that started with Headmaster Warden (who himself was harassed by ward masters and local bureaucrats, who inevitably had tormentors of their own) and went all the way down to young Alan Scott who, like the lowest order of simple life, could only hope for the victory of perseverance. Luckily for Alan, Jimmy Shustak was a cog above Kimmel and Hartmann in this great machine. And he, Kimmell, and Hartmann all shared with absolute certainty the knowledge that Jimmy could simultaneously beat both boys into a coma. This motivated them to do as he said, in spite of their posturing. The talk and name calling was face-saving that Jimmy allowed them in order to save time and energy. He enjoyed inflicting a good ass-whupping as much as the next kid, but it was late and he was losing valuable shuteye. The boys got off the bench and stepped away, never taking their eyes off of Jimmy.

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Shustak casually kicked open the lid, curious to see how the new kid fared. He had been watching Alan take his lickings from the first day, and had been impressed by the kid’s dignity. As a matter of fact, Alan Scott was rich with it. There was no love at Willoughby house, nor heat, nor privacy, nor compassion. There was little food, few blankets, and only traces of hope, which sadly was about as real as fool’s gold. But in this nasty, brutish place, among adult and child, tormentor and victim, dignity was the ultimate commodity, a treasure as rare as sapphires. It was the only thing craved by all, and everyone worked to strip it from those few who had it. Scott climbed out of the bin, his face wet and streaked black with coal suet and sweat, his chin covered in blood, the flesh of his lower lip cut and bleeding from his biting into it. He stared them all dow n-it wasn’t so much a look of withering defiance as the look of someone who had found his center. Now more than ever, young Alan knew who he was and of what he was capable. The feeling of paralysis, the loss of control, the certainty of being burned, had terrified him. But unlike others who were released from the box after going through this time-honored, vicious ritual, Scott did not scamper away, whimpering. Nor did he force laughter and try to ingratiate himself, becoming “one of the boys.” He simply stepped out and walked to the bucket-deep concrete slop sink to wash the dirt and kerosene from his face. Scott was always good at taking the pain. He’d learned early in life that suffering was one thing living offered in abundance. But he would be damned if he would show fear and lose control again.

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The others watched him, their curiosity edging closer to grudging respect. He pushed his way past the older boys to his bunk. Jimmy couldn’t resist calling out to him. “Hey, kid... ” Alan turned, his face expressionless. “Why didn’t you cry uncle? Would’a saved us all some time.” Alan shrugged. “They were either gonna bum me or let me out sometime. Sayin’ uncle don’t change a thing.” Jimmy nodded, impressed with the clarity. Alan was one of them now. He pitied the kid for it.

From then on, Alan had kept tight rein on his emotions, and his destiny. The other boys, especially Jimmy Shustak, recognized his restraint and rewarded it with hard-won respect, followed by deference. And as he grew to a young man in that miserable orphanage in a dying city, Scott came to understand what it took to be a leader of the unwanted. Scott led the boys of Willoughby House by example of his fear­ lessness, taking on any and all challenges to his strength and dig­ nity. Eventually his physical strength became self-evident so he began working on becoming good with words until he could con­ vince anyone of anything. He and Jimmy vowed to make better lives for themselves. They took on whatever menial jobs they could find to earn money to buy books and together learned to read and write. When they came of age they left the orphanage and shared an apartment, Jimmy working night watches at the railroad stockyard, then signing on for an apprenticeship with the A line running up the northwest.

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Later, he went to work for a construction company owned by a man named Albert Dekker. Alan put himself through college, working nights as a warehouse janitor, the mindless rote work freeing his mind to spin new ideas and inspirations. He took his breaks sitting on an inverted bucket on the loading dock, reading "Milton, Thoreau, and the adventures of Hawthorne and Melville. It was Jimmy who convinced Alan to study engineering. Based on what he saw in Dekker’s company, Jimmy convinced Alan that they could make a fortune building bridges for the railroads. He and Alan would go into business together, becoming masters of their own destinies. But there was more to it than that-Jim m y had an angle to play. He had seen that Dekker’s company, with its monopoly on railroad contracts, had become lazy, sloppy, and slow. They could beat Dekker at his own game. It was the opportunity they had been looking for their entire lives. The Big Break. No sooner had Alan graduated then Jimmy had quit his job and together they started their own construction company. Jimmy’s older brother Paul staked them with a little cash, and the two friends took on every crappy contract for the railroads that they could, slowly building their crew and equipment. Alan created ingenious new bridge designs, taking on risky jobs and gambling that his crew could pull off the work. His devil-may-care attitude won him bigger contracts and employees eager to follow his lead. But above all, Jimmy and Alan brought discipline to each job, bringing the work in on time and under budget. Jimmy and Alan made it a point to hire men that Dekker would

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not-outsiders and immigrants that did not have the comforts and security of family, men who, though they couldn’t read or write English, were smart, strong and motivated. With this crew of outsiders, Jimmy and Alan steered their com­ pany with a purpose, just as they had steered their lives. They spe­ cialized in building bridges all over the world, in places where Dekker would not or could not afford to attempt, and they built as well a reputation for doing the impossible. To earn their reputation they had suffered, but this only made them stronger and forged their bond of loyalty. And always, no matter what the challenge or obstacle, Scott maintained his control. Until now.

The bright Colorado sunlight began filtering through the gathering clouds. Scott felt for the first time today that he was catching a break. But the clouds were too low as they wafted overhead. No, not clouds. Smoke. The steam wafting above him was mixed with darker wisps of smoke. Scott smelled a sweet burning smell. It brought back memories of Panama, the Philippines, Honduras... none of them good. Ominous hissing came from the hulk of the engine as the boiler cooked, steam leaking from ruptures. Scott could see a body pinned beneath the locomotive. Could it be Jimmy? He tried to remember where he had last seen his partner, but he could not think beyond the collapse. Whoever it was, his flesh was now being seared by the runaway furnace of the locomotive, just as he was about to be deepfried by the tar.

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Scott turned his head enough to see the cars scattered down the ravine. They burned, the fire growing stronger and fiercer with each passing moment, climbing the sharp incline of wreckage and broken trees and feeding on the destruction. He could feel the hot wind from the fire whipping at him like a tornado. Panic once again welled in him. He wanted to scream and struggle. The dull pain of the beams on his legs grew sharper. His mouth was dry, his brown wool shirt and khaki pants tom and sticky with sweat and blood. The air became filthy with smoke and it was hard for Scott to take a breath. Leverage. He needed leverage. He laughed... it had taken him this long to figure that out. Some engineer. He laughed louder, a little too hard and too long. It occurred to him that he might be losing his mind, which, given his circumstance, might not have been such a terribly bad thing. He looked for something to use as a lever among the nearby rocks, dirt, and debris. There were dead bodies. He saw his plans for the trestles, which the wind from the firestorm picked up with the dust, sending the blueprints whipping around him. But nothing that could be used as a lever. Boiling tar above him. Fire below. “You’d better find something soon, boy.” Scott wasn’t sure if he thought it or said it, but he knew it was true. He dug frantically through the coal and gravel ballast scattered around him. Deeper into the spilled pile his hand went, until it touched something metallic. Scott gasped with new hope. As fast as he could, he pushed the coal aside, uncovering the object until he could see a bit of green

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under the black grime of coal dust. He reached for it, just able to grab a thin metal handle, and pulled it out. Dusting it off, Scott saw that it was the odd green lantern Jimmy had insisted on bringing on board the train. According to Jimmy, it was supposed to be good luck. Some good luck—Alan had held it in his hand when he and Jimmy had felt the incredibly unnatural feeling of the locomotive falling from under their feet, then disbelief at the tumbling, followed by the blackness. Scott’s first thought was to use the lantern to dig under his legs, but the angle was too awkward. Besides, the lantern had no sharp edges. It would take too long to pound it against the heavy timber pressing on his legs, too short to wedge between the tarred, pressuretreated wood. It was useless to him. The tar oozed like black lava down the slope towards Scott. To his back was the heat of the fire, giving the twilight shadows of the ravine an ominous, red flickering glow. So Scott decided to do what others would have considered the most logical, but he, even in his suffering and fear, could not bring himself to do until now. He called out for help. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. All he heard in return were the echoes of his own desperate cries. After a while, he could hear laughter, only to dis­ cover that it was his own. He lay back, just laughing now. He was really going off the rails. “Off the rails.” More laughter. His friends were dead. Funnier even still. He laughed until he choked and coughed. Then, as if the circuit breaker to his madness had been thrown, he lay still in quiet con­ templation, his strength sapped. He lay back, looking up at the sun

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and sky. A red tail hawk circling overhead seemed to taunt him with its easy freedom. So close. He couldn’t stop the tar. He couldn’t stop the fire. He could not free himself from the wreckage. He could only accept the inevitable and await his fate. His hand dug under the flap of his flannel shirt pocket, past the neatly folded and snugly tucked telegram (“Alan—please consider my offer... ”) and pulled out a crumpled pack of smokes. He lay back and lit up a Lucky Strike with the brass Zippo Irene had given him last Christmas, took a long deep drag and slowly blew the smoke out in a long silent sigh. Of all the damned bad luck. It was all going to be so sweet. It was then that the lantern spoke to him.

CHAPTER

4 I

t looked curiously pristine sitting in the dirt and debris, with its peculiar green hue and odd design that was alien in a way beyond other terrestrial cultures. It simply did not belong here

and Scott could not imagine a place where it would fit in. It was only a little disturbing to Scott that the lantern spoke to him. He assumed that he had gone, or was at least in the process of, going insane. Train wrecks can do that to a man. The talking green lantern only confirmed it. He was no stranger to hallucinations. During his travels as a railroad engineer he’d experienced much worse from lack of sleep, overloads of heat, fear and work, and on binges of everything from Mexican mescal to French absinthe. He assumed surviving a train wreck and being surrounded by the bloodied, bruised and crushed corpses of his men would do things to his mind. What did bother him was that the lantern didn’t seem to particu­ larly care for him. It spoke to him as if it were obliged to, its tone

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harsh and judgmental. Scott was definitely not in the mood to hear what it had to say. “Save yourself,” it said. Scott sighed. “What the hell you think I’ve been trying to do?” “This began with you.” Scott shook his head and closed his eyes. “This was an accident.” “You are the only one alive.” Scott had nothing to say about that, so the lantern continued. “You must begin anew.” “And how the hell does that happen with me all wadded up like this?” Alan replied with heartfelt sincerity. He didn’t like riddles. He wanted comfort, a soothing voice, someone to tell him it would all work out, or maybe something to incite him, a verbal kick in the butt that would motivate him to get out of this mess. But the lantern wasn’t providing this. Instead, it turned out to be a righteous bastard. Still, as a hallucination it was excellent-vibrant and real. Scott noted that it had his voice. Was he Edgar Bergen and the lantern Charlie McCarthy? But though it sounded like him, the tone of the lantern was one that he didn’t recognize, sounding like a dispassionate observer of his thoughts and actions, who did not seem to care about him one way or the other. Scott felt an uneasiness beyond his absolutely comforting certainty that the last hour’s events had driven him mad. He decided, for the hell of it, that he’d try and talk to it, reason with it. The four-hundred pound pole crushing his thighs into the ground made sure that he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d pass the time by making the damn lantern see things his way. The gift of

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gab had been his knack since Willoughby House. It worked on investors, inspectors, politicians, employees and women. Why wouldn’t it work on a lamp? “You’re blaming me for this?” Scott asked. “Who else?” “7 didn’t make those trestles collapse,” Scott said, masking his own worry. “A mistake was made. Out of pride,” the lantern said with great certainty. Scott couldn’t believe it. The damned hallucination was getting to him. Or was he getting to himself, projecting his fears through “The bridge was strong. I know that as a fact,” Alan declared. “The flaw was not within the structure.” Alan swallowed. “What are you hedging at? Get to the point.” “Tell me your secret,” the lantern said, accusingly. “You wanna know my secret? I talk to lamps,” Alan replied. “Admit the truth,” the lantern countered. Everything was beginning to hurt, so Scott stopped playing. “What the hell are you that you know so much?” “I’m of the Starheart.” “You lost me there.” The lantern glowed and its voice changed, sounding unearthly, less language than pure thought. Scott did not so much hear as immediately understand what it said next. It was as if he had acquired an instant memory, images and sounds and feelings flashing through his mind, for a moment fusing consciousness with unconscious mind.

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“My being is that of the Green Flame of Light,” The lantern imparted to Alan. “I exist because of the Guardians of the Universe, who sought to contain my energy. The last Guardian to wield my energy, Yalan Gur, was corrupted by power, and the Guardians turned against him.” Scott had instant memory of the lantern’s journey, beginning as the life force of the powerful Guardian known as Yalan Gur, the purity of his power that led to his descent to evil, and his ultimate destruction at the hands of the humans he had enslaved. His power concentrated into the meteorite which, through fate, good luck and misfortune, had become the green lantern sitting now before Alan Scott. Scott blinked. He knew the origin of the lantern and had no doubt of its veracity. Its history had become as tangible to him as his own memories. To question its existence would be to question his own. The lantern sensed this. Its glow grew brighter. “His will is contained within me. Three times shall I flame green! First, to bring death! Second, to bring life! And third, to bring power!” “So which purpose is this? Death?” “No. Life.” Scott tried moving himself. “That’s some good news for a change. You want to bring life? Help me get the hell out of here.” “You must believe.” “Boy, you picked the wrong guy for that one.” The lantern seemed to glow a deeper green, pulsating angrily. “Tell me your secret,” it demanded.

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The tar was dripping onto the log now, soon to spill onto his legs. Still, Scott could not admit to what was tearing his soul apart. “I’ve got no secrets, Mister Lamp. I’m an open book. The Gospel according to Matthew, Mark, Luke and Alan.” The lantern said nothing and Scott hated it. It seemed to know that it didn’t need to respond. The molten tar dripped like gravy down the side of the spar. Scott watched it fall onto his pant leg. A few seconds passed like an eternity as the tar seeped into the twill, then through it. Scott felt the searing heat. Unable to stop himself, he shrieked as the skin of his shin burned and blistered under the molten tar, fusing it to the pant cloth. He could hear the clicking of the broken bones of his legs as he writhed and pain came upon pain. More tar dripped onto his knees and thighs, oozing and deeply burning rivulets into his skin, blistering the surface and cooking the fat beneath. Scott felt the nuances of each layer of pain, the dull ache of the broken bones, the sharp, exposed pain of the bone shards digging into the muscle, and the horrible, slow, deep torture of the scalding tar. It was the tar that was making him crazy. And through the haze of agony, Scott real­ ized that it was slowly forging a burning path to the soft tissues of his crotch. “The wreck is my fault! It’s my fault! The design failed!” He could not get the confession out fast enough. It echoed up the ravine. Scott blacked out, lucky to be able to slip into the sanctuary of the unconscious.

Again the sun. Scott opened his eyes and blinked. The sun was

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closer to the horizon and not as strong. Other than that Scott had no idea how much time had passed. He rolled over. Then he realized he could roll over. He was no longer trapped. The realization of his freedom snapped him to full consciousness. He sat up. He was still in the ravine, but he was free of the log, which was now covered by the molten tar, filling the impression where he had been pinned. How did he get free? His right hand was gripping a thin metal handle. It was the green lantern. He looked at his legs stretched out before him. They were unbumed, unbroken, as if he had simply sat down to rest for a while. Not believing it, he probed them with his left hand... he was unwilling to release his grip on the lantern for fear of returning to the dream or reality of what he was suffering through. His hands confirmed what he saw... his legs weren’t even bruised. What was this? Was this real or an escape from reality? A sudden flash of a young woman’s face; soft and pale, with beautiful long blonde hair but distance and madness in her eyes. The image of her sent a shiver down Scott’s spine. He could only think that the pain had shoved him into insanity’s abyss, or that he had imagined the entire incident from the shock of the crash. But the memory of Yalan Gur still resonated in him, as did the pain in his legs, like memories of long ago incidents. Either way, he wasn’t taking any chances. He was going to get the hell away from the wreck. But first he would force himself to find the cause of this disaster. Even though he dreaded it, he gave himself no choice but to

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confirm where his design had failed. He was not used to such feel­ ings of utter defeat and anxiety, but they occupied his mind, dreadful and real. As he climbed his way past the grease and fallen timbers, Scott saw the entire enterprise—like his life—flash before him. The survey­ ing, the cutting and hauling the pine trees, dynamiting and shoring up the embankments, testing the stream bed for the trestles. The days of good, hard work, of frustration and progress, the tension and pleasure of overcoming a thousand problems to build a bridge that could dependably support the weight of endless freight trains passing over its trestles. He worried over his revolutionary new design that enabled them to build the bridge faster than Dekker’s team. The design is what won them the contract and it was to be a true triumph of engineering. But the terrain proved more difficult than Alan and Jimmy expected, and they fell behind schedule. Ultimately they were forced to a hasty testing of those supports with the weighted cars. But Scott’s anxieties were swept away by the cheers of the crew as the locomotive’s whistle blew in triumph as it crossed it on the first and only test run. ...And now all of it lay at the bottom of the ravine, destroyed. Scott tried swallowing but his mouth was dry. He wiped the back of his hand over his cracked lips. More dead men lay in his path, some burnt, some in pieces or involuntarily contorted like circus freaks in the accident, others lying peacefully as though merely napping. Although he held had no hope for survivors, Scott dutifully checked each for signs of life, and left them as they lay.

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Scott continued to climb towards the trestles, which stuck out like shattered bone from flesh. He tried to remember the exact moment the world went dark, turning topsy-turvy, then light again as the train tumbled downward. Scott stopped and leaned against a pine. The mountain altitude left him breathless and light-headed. He closed his eyes and, taking comfort in the tree’s clean scent... ... A scent replaced by the acrid smell of burning coal. He could feel a cool steady wind whipping through his hair, the train moving under his feet. He could hear the steam engine chugging, the rapid metallic clacking of the locomotive. The train was heading for the trestles. He looked down at his hand on the throttle. The train picked up speed. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw Jimmy’s dark features, creased with worry. “Not so fast Alan,” Jimmy said tightly. Scott grinned easily, trying to mask his own concern. “Nervous?” Jimmy wasn’t having any. “Yeah. I am. We shouldn’t push it—it’s our first fully-loaded run across the bridge.” Scott shrugged, keeping his hand on the throttle. “The weighted cars tested fine.” “But we’ve got the crew on board.” “Goddamit Jimmy—I know what I’m doing. The design is fine.” “Slow it down.” “What the hell’s gotten into you?” Scott snapped. “We’ve got enemies, Alan.” “Who? Dekker? We beat him out of the contract, fair and square.”

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“Don’t be a jerk,” Jimmy said. “A guy like that isn’t going to leave us alone.” “There’s nothing but shadows out there, my friend.” “Men like Dekker won’t let someone like me beat ‘em,” Jimmy said with quiet certainty. “Like you?” “Like me—a Jewish kid from the gutter.” Scott rolled his eyes. “Get over it. It’s business, Jimmy.” “C’mon, how long have we been going head-to-head with guys like that? At Willoughby house. When we started getting contracting work in Gotham. Rich guys like that sneering at us, treating us like scum because we don’t have the same blue blood. You think this is business? It ain’t for guys like Dekker. This is about keeping other men down.” Jimmy squinted into the rushing wind as the train hurled forward. “You think he hates you that much?” Scott said. “No, he doesn’t hate me at all, Alan. You don’t hate roaches. You just kill ‘em.” “Is that how you think he sees us? As bugs?” “Not you. Me.” Scott waved his hand in dismissal but it didn’t stop Jimmy from continuing. “A guy like Dekker looks at me, he doesn’t see a human. The rules of fair play don’t apply. He’ll be damned if he lets a guy from the streets beat him. He thinks that if he does there’ll be more like me coming and pretty soon he’ll be the one down for the count and w e’ll be on top. That’s what he’s thinking. You saw him eyeing us

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at the Flamingo Club. It makes him sick to see me getting ahead. The only way to beat men like Dekker is to beat them completely.” “Okay, maybe he does hate Jews. I’m sure he hates lots of people,” Alan said. “But what about me?” Jimmy’s hand tightened into a fist. “Nah, you could be his goddam nephew for all he knows... except you’re in business with a Jew.” Scott snorted a laugh. “And you’re in business with a shuckster.” Jimmy looked over at Scott. “Oh yeah? How so?” Scott shrugged, realizing he was letting on too much about his worries over the bridge design. He, too, wanted to beat Dekker and his bridge design was their trump card. But Scott wasn’t sure about how soundly it would stand under maximum stress. He covered this doubt with smooth talk and his easy, convincing manner. If Dekker had gotten this contract, Alan and Jimmy would have been frozen out of years of work, perhaps driving their business to bankruptcy. Alan tried to change the subject. “Let’s just drop this whole thing about Dekker. It’s ruining my naturally cheerful demeanor.” But Jimmy’s face stayed grim. There was nothing funny in what he was thinking. In the pre-dawn light the train continued to snake down the tracks towards the bridge. Scott leaned back in from the window of the locomotive and turned to face Jimmy. “Well, I’ll say it one last time—I think you’ve got this blown all out of proportion.” “Yeah? How about what’s going on in Europe. Is that paranoia too? It don’t take much for someone to kill off a bunch of people in ‘self interest’.” “That’s war, Jimmy. This is business,” Alan reminded him. “Dekker's not going to let us off the hook that easily.”

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“Boy, do you need a break.” Jimmy’s grimace didn’t change. “Maybe so.” Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out two packets and handed one to Jimmy, who looked at Alan questioningly. “Plane tickets,” Alan said. “1 figure we’ve earned an airplane flight back to Gotham for a couple days.” “What about... ?” “The crew can go ahead without us. Look at the date.” For the first time in days, Jimmy cracked a grin. “Alyssa’s birth­ day.” “You can be back in time to give her that dress you picked up for her in Denver.” A shadow crossed Jimmy’s face. “Does this have anything to do with Irene?” Another grin from Jimmy, this one mocking. “That’s twice in less than five minutes you’ve smiled,” Scott said, “Your face ain’t use to it. Go easy... a ripe melon like yours just might crack wide open.” But Jimmy wasn’t through with his needling. “C’mon partner. You’ve been awfully distracted lately, kinda absent and now like you’re walking on air. She pop the question to you?” “You’ve got that a little wrong—it’s the guy who does the asking,” Alan said. “Not as far as that one’s concerned,” Jimmy laughed. “She’s one dame who knows what she wants and goes after it. You may be in over your head.” “I just want you to have a little time with your daughter,” Alan said. Scott offered a smoke to Jimmy.

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“We’re coming up to the bridge.” Scott leaned out—in the breaking dawn he could see the slight curve of the rails and the girder bridge spanning the ravine. Scott felt good that the work was done and that he was literally moving on to greater things. His fretting about the bridge and Jimmy’s concern about Dekker would all be put to rest in a few minutes. Scott peered at the queer-looking lantern, Jimmy’s lucky charm, that he held in his hands. “What the heck is up with this thing? It’s green!” “Something, ain’t it? I got it from a relative. This crazy uncle—I mean really crazy-m ade it for me. The thing’s unbreakable. Go ahead, try denting it.” “Is this like the time you told me to take a swing at you to show my how quick you were?” Alan said. Jimmy frowned. “I don’t remember that.” “You shouldn’t - I knocked you out cold. And I’m not going to ding up your family heirloom.” Jimmy took the lantern from Alan. “Okay, I’ll show you.” Casually but with great force, Jimmy took the lantern and hurled it against the locomotive boiler—it bounced off heavily and landed on the deck, rolling with the motion of the train. Scott picked it up and looked—not a scratch. Jimmy nudged him. “C’mon strong man—I’ll buy you a steak dinner back in Gotham if you so much as scratch it.” “You’re on.” Scott hung the lantern on the hook, and picked up the coal shovel. Standing back, he swung at it with all his might, the shovel blade bouncing off the lantern with a mighty clang.

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Scott took it off the hook and held it up—nothing. “Your uncle really knows how to build a good lantern.” “It’s good luck. Been that way f o r - ” Then there was a roar and the ground fell away and everything went black.

Leaning against the pine tree, Scott blinked out of his memory to the grim present. It wasn’t the ground that fell away. It was the train. Was there an explosion? Did the train slew sideways? As he resumed his climb, he looked back up at the broken trestles. Was it the footings? The soil? The beams splitting? Was it a derailment? There must have been an explosion—or was it the roar of the crash that he remembered hearing? He thought of Irene. He saw her profile, riding on a streetcar. Her expression was pleasant but neutral as she looked ahead to see if this was their stop. He remembered now that this image was his only thought of her as he had awaited his death-not a glorious kiss, her longing looks, none of that. It was simply her face with a look of casual expectation. And because that was the most he’d thought of her, he was ashamed and vowed to do something about that if he ever saw her again. Scott could feel the heat from the fire below. Soon the bridge structure would be engulfed in flames. He had only a little time to investigate the bridge’s failure. The broken trestles, splintered like giant twigs, accused him. He began climbing the tarred, broken wood. As he neared the top of the trestles he smelled the sharp, biting odor of cordite. He followed

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the smell to the critical point of collapse. Leaning in, he saw the charred fracture where a small explosive charge had detonated, weakening the bridge enough to cause it to collapse under a heavy load. Someone knew the stress point of the bridge and set an explosive charge to weaken it. It was clear that the bridge had been sabotaged.

CHAPTER

5 A

lan Scott awoke to a hangover to beat all hangovers. He found himself awash in the rumpled sheets and dirty laundry of his bed. He sat up and scanned the dusty, littered

bedroom, silently cursing the sunlight bleeding through his shot blinds, feeling like an exhausted vampire. How did he get home? He lay back in bed, still reeling from the nightmare of a terrible train wreck, then salvation from a lantern, of all things. He had dreamed that it gave him magic powers, even the ability to fly faster than anyone had ever flown, so fast that it brought him home to Gotham in a matter of minutes. He remembered flying through the sky all the way home. It must have been a dream! It all seemed terribly real. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, dug around under the laundry and found a reasonably clean pair of boxers to wear. His head pounded as he tried to put together the last twenty-four hours, but found that he could not get past the vivid nightmare.

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Scott stumbled around his apartment, trying to get dressed. He knew he had to be ready for a morning flight and he was doing his best to sift through the clutter, past the single leather chair and overflowing ashtrays and memorabilia from around the world: topographical maps, aerial survey photos, matchbooks with girls’ names, soil samples, pictures of bridges he and Jimmy had built. The apartment wasn’t so much a home but storage and a drop-off point for Scott. But as he shook the cobwebs out of his possessions and his head, he couldn’t quite shake the nightmare he had had about the trestle bridge. It seemed as real to him as a kiss’s memory. In fact, Scott couldn’t remember where he’d been last night, or last week for that matter. Trying to dress and remember at the same time was too much for Scott, so he sat down in his underwear, one sock on his foot, the other in his hands, and tried to recall the last solid memory he had.

It was the night before they left for Colorado, He and Jimmy went to the bar at the Flamingo Club to drink themselves silly in celebra­ tion of winning the contract for the trestle bridge. And who should send them a bottle of Cristal but Dekker, who was sitting with his sycophants across the room, at his reserved comer booth. A bit spooked at the coincidence of his presence, Jimmy and Scott drunkenly, civilly tipped their fluted champagne glasses and nodded thanks to the dignified industrialist. Dekker smiled back warmly, but his eyes were as dead and cold as a rattlesnakes. The two men drank down the champagne with gusto, not knowing or caring that it was fifty years old and the best the restaurant had to offer. They

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were in it to get drunk and as with so many other things they pur­ sued, they would not be denied. Jimmy was carrying a faint sense of melancholy and doom that Scott, even in his drunkenness, could sense. He leaned in to his friend, a little too close, and stared at him, breathing heavily in his face. “What’s up with you, pal? Why the long face?” Jimmy flopped the latest edition of the Tribune on the bar. It was filled with news stories about the Nazis marching into Poland and Czechoslovakia. Jimmy stared moodily at the paper, his glass in hand. “I’m sick of it.” “What?” “Watching innocent people get the shaft.” Scott grinned. “Then you must be sick of living on this planet.” “Maybe so.” Jimmy tossed back another shot. He looked at Scott. “You ever think that maybe we could do some good?” Scott squinted at his friend. “Whattya mean? Build an orphanage or something?” Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe.” “Jimmy, there’s no money in orphanages. We ought to know.” “You never felt like giving something back?” “I don’t have enough to give. When I have what that lizard in the comer booth’s got, then I’ll become a regular Andrew Carnegie,” Alan said. “If it’s that easy, it don’t mean nothin’.” “I don’t follow.”

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Jimmy chomped down on ice from his drink. “It ain’t sacrifice if you can’t feel it.” “Jimmy, we’ve been sacrificing since we could walk and talk. I can’t believe you’re thinking of that being anything but a crock. Let’s take care of business first. Then we can do some good, okay? This is our first crack at the major leagues. We do good here, we can build a hundred orphanages.” “God damn it Alan, you’re missing the point—“ Before Jimmy could drive his point home, a hand came down heavily on Scott’s shoulder, interrupting the debate. Scott turned to see the round, jovial face of John Tellum, the owner of Apex Broadcasting networks and Irene’s boss at his WXYZ, Apex’s flagship radio station. Scott was glad to see Tellum, whose relentlessly cheerful demeanor would be welcome relief from Jimmy’s gloomy mood. Tellum vigorously shook Scott’s hand. “Where the hell’s Irene?” “It’s a stag night, John. Pull up a stool.” “I’d love to, but I got the in-laws in town and we got tickets to see some Shakespeare play with backstabbing royal people and their silly shenanigans.” Tellum rolled his eyes. “Heard the great news about your bridge contract—when do you head out?” “Three days.” “And you left Irene at home tonight?” Tellum wagged his finger in the “naughty boy” gesture. Scott grinned, embarrassed. “It’s not m e-she’s covering some gangland shooting.” Tellum nodded. “The best thing I ever did was give that girl a shot in radio. And to think she started out as a receptionist.”

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Scott downed his drink and waved the bartender over for another. “Yeah John, that’s some real Horatio Alger fodder.” Tellum missed the sarcasm. “Irene’s about as crazy for a good story as she is for you. But you’re the only one who can make her happy, even though good crime to cover runs a close second.” Scott stared into his fresh drink. “I wouldn’t know where to begin, John. She’s her own boss—you of all people should know that.” “A force of nature, to be sure,” agreed Tellum. “If you got a way of getting her to settle for me, I’m all ears.” “What do you need, a blueprint? One of those—what are they called—schemes?” “Schematic. No, look, I just don’t know what the point would be,” Scott said. “Between my work and hers, neither of us is home. Who’ll do the dishes?” “Look, quit this goofy gig, blow off this loser here,” Tellum nodded at Jimmy with a wink to Scott, “and come work for me at the Apex. Radio is the future Alan, and Apex Broadcasting will be at the tip of that spear of progress.” “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” Alan said with a smile. “I’m just looking out for your happiness: come work for me and then you can settle down with Irene.” “Get out of here, you crazy bastard.” Another wink from Tellum told Scott it was a joke, but then he leaned in and whispered. “I’m serious about working at A pex-I’ve got an opening at WXYZ. Just say the word and it’s yours.” Scott turned and smiled goofily at Jimmy, but Jimmy was sitting deep in thought, ignoring Tellum. That put Scott back into a funk

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as well, this time about Irene and his confusion about their onagain, off-again relationship. Prior to Irene, Scott had no time for women in his life—he was too mobile and never saw the need to settle down, although women loved him. Irene was the only woman Scott met who captured his attention and respect. She was smart, brave and sure of herself. But it was those very same qualities that kept them apart: they both had too much ambition and drive to give in to the needs of the other. So it went. Women went after Jimmy, too, but he didn’t take notice either. Since his young wife had died, Jimmy’s love of his life was his eight year-old daughter. Alyssa was yet another catalyst for Jimmy becoming a man at such a young age. When he had gotten his teenage girlfriend pregnant, he opted to marry Beth and become father to his daughter, even though he wasn’t much more than a kid himself. He knew what it was like to grow up without parents, and he would be damned to have Alyssa struggle the way he did. And since his Beth’s horribly premature death, his love for Alyssa had only grown stronger. Jimmy threw a few bills on the zinc bar top and heaved himself off the barstool. “Okay, good night.” “Where are you going?” Alan asked. “Home. I got a lot to do before we can leave.” “One more,” Alan insisted. Jimmy took Alan’s hand off his arm. “I gotta get up early—I promised Alyssa we’d go for a carriage ride through the park.” Scott dropped his hand. Alyssa was Jimmy’s ace in the hole and an argument that he knew he couldn’t counter.

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Jimmy smiled tightly. “What can I say—it’s our ritual before I head out.” “Yeah, I know”, Scott said. “Get out of here.” As he watched Jimmy leave the bar, in a brief, sober moment, Scott wondered how it would feel to love someone unequivocally. He found the idea fearful because he would then be vulnerable. Loving someone completely was to have a weakness because it was impossible to keep anyone safe from the world. For that reason he could never give himself completely to anything or anyone. It was why he did not think he could ever love Irene enough.

And now, the morning after a terrible dream, with days and possibly weeks missing from his memory, Scott sat alone in his apartment, disoriented, trying to piece it all together. Time, experience, premonition, fantasy and reality, seemed elastic. Did he really fly through the air with a green lantern in his hand? How could someone do that and be certain it happened w ithout being certifiably nuts? The only thing he was certain of in that moment was that he needed to take a monster piss. As he made his way across the cluttered room to his bathroom, his foot kicked something hard, making it fall over with a heavy thump. Picking it up, he saw that it was Jim m y’s green lantern. Last night’s dream came back to him, but this time as a memory. Scott began to sense w hat was real, and it made him very nervous.

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The lantern was dusty, not from lack of use but from dirt. Fresh m ountain dirt. It struck Scott that the dream w asn’t a dream. He checked his body—not a scratch. The wreck and the lantern hadn’t been a nightmare. It was a memory. Scott dressed as fast as he could.

The building superintendent was lost in the mind-emptying work of mopping the marble foyer in neat, concentric circles when he heard footsteps. Looking up, he was startled to see Scott standing before him, a lantern in his hands. “Moses, who left this?” Scott’s tone was frantic. “Mister S co tt-y o u ’re here!” the super stammered. “Where else would I be?” “But the n e w s -” “W hat news?” Scott asked. The super pulled a copy of the Tribune from his back pocket. He held it in front of Scott, staring at him as if he was looking at a ghost. Scott snatched the paper and snapped it open. At the bottom of the front page was a new story about the trestle bridge disaster. Scott checked the date on the paper—the disaster had happened yesterday. “The paper said you were missing,” Moses said. “How did you get back so fast?” Scott stared into the old m an’s gentle eyes. “I flew.”

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The newsroom at The Apex Broadcasting Company was dingy, messy and alive w ith the sounds of people gathering news: ringing phones, clattering typewriters, incessantly chattering teletype machines spilling out rolls o f wire copy, and the din of voices-shouting, questioning, laughing, the comforting, never ending chaos of the newsroom. Scott stumbled through this sea o f cluttered desks manned by unkempt, deadline-harried newsmen, past filing cabinets over­ flowing w ith paper. He was oblivious to the activity around him and got an occasional curious glance. He found Irene’s desk—the only hint of it being a w om an’s was a small vase of flowers sitting next to a lipstick-stained coffee cup—but she w asn’t there. The desk was piled high with old newspapers, and sitting on her typewriter was the Tribune article of the train wreck. Steam rising from the coffee cup told Scott that she was nearby. He turned to the newsman the next desk over. “Where’s Irene?” Not bothering to look up from the copy he was editing, the journeym an jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Scott walked to where the reporter was pointing—a bank of glass-enclosed sound-proof booths where the radio reporters recorded their stories. Scott walked past the booths until he saw her. Irene was at a small desk in one of the little booths, reading news copy into a large Dictaphone in the booth that recorded her voice. Her story was about a factory worker’s strike in Michigan that had become violent. She was reciting the number o f strikers killed when

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Scott’s face caught her eye. She stopped and stared at the sight of the m an she assumed was dead standing no more than ten feet away from her. He came through the door and she grabbed and hugged him tight. They stood that way for several minutes, not saying a word, ju st holding each other and taking in each other’s presence. Finally, he looked at her and asked. “The men... Jimmy... are they all... ?” Irene hugged Scott again, but softly and with tenderness. The way she did this, her face pressed into his neck, told him that they were all dead. Then it was her turn to ask questions. “W hat are you doing here? They paper said you were missing, but they’re still trying to recover all the bodies.” “I don’t know how I got here,” Scott said. This was a lie: Scott knew that it was the lantern that had brought him back, but he could not bring himself to say it out loud. “Alan, I made some calls to my friend at the ICC-he said that the collapse was due to faulty construction.” “So they’re blaming the design,” Scott said. “My design.” Irene shook her head. “Paul called me this morning. He said that Dekker was behind it.” Scott looked at her. “How does he know?” “He said Jimmy left an envelope with h im -it said not to believe in any accidents. I’ll call him if you w ant to tal—” But Scott was on his feet, not waiting for Irene, nor the elevat­ ors, sprinting into the stairwell and down the ten flights of stairs to go confront Jimmy’s brother.

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The yellow cab pulled up in front of the storefront bakery on Van Brundt Street. The tiny bakery was dingy but was known to have the best bagels in Gotham. Paul Shustak built the business from nothing, and now he owned both the bakery and the small railroad apartment above it. Scott burst through the door, almost knocking over a heavyset lady with a dozen fresh bagels tucked in a bag under her arm. As she limped towards the trolley stop, she gave Scott a lingering dirty look but he did not notice: his eyes were locked on Paul, who was dumping a fresh load o f freshly baked bagels into the display baskets behind the m ahogany and glass counter. Paul w asn’t surprised to see Scott, nor was he happy. He turned to face him, wiping the flour off his hands on his apron. Scott faced Paul across the glass countertop, and neither offered a hand to the other. Paul spoke first. “W hat happened out there?” he asked tersely. “I w ant to see Jimmy’s letter.” “It’s not yours to read.” “God damn it Paul, let me see that letter!” With one fluid movement, Paul lunged over the counter and took a roundhouse swing at Scott—his bare knuckles connected with Scott’s temple, knocking Scott to the floor of the bakery. Scott got to his knees, wobbly and shaking his head. A shot to the head was not w hat he needed in his current state. He wiped flour from his face. Paul had come from behind the counter and stood over him . “You screwed up and got him killed, didn’t you?” Paul was shouting now, his voiced powered by anger and grief.

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Scott could see that although Paul stood in a fighter’s crouch, with balled fists, tears streaked down his cheeks. He felt sorry but was not dissuaded. “Let me see it,” Scott said firmly. It was more a demand than a request. Grieving, enraged, Paul came at Scott and Scott sprung to his feet, his fists before him, waist-high, his left hand forward. He did not w ant to fight, but he w asn’t going to leave w ithout that letter, even if he had to beat Paul into giving it to him. The two men squared off. The oak shelving surrounding them, cluttered with canned goods, and the tin ceiling above them gave the space a dark, enclosed feeling; not a proper place for a fist fight. Scott realized that Paul’s busines^m ight suffer and con­ sidered suggesting that they take it outside. “Uncle Paul?” Both men turned—standing in the curtained doorway was an eight year-old girl with long curly dark hair and dark eyes. Skinny as a beanpole, she was already radiating a future beauty. Scott’s arms dropped to his sides, his hands opening up. Paul, still ready to fight, barked at the girl w ithout taking his eyes off Scott. “Go upstairs Alyssa.” The girl did not move. Scott could see that she was as tough and smart as her father, but had a softness and w om an’s wisdom that was her m other’s. Her m other had not liked Scott, typing him as the man who always came to take her Jimmy away to some strange, dangerous jungle or wind-swept, snow-covered

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mountain. She saw Scott as the harbinger of a thousand chances at a sudden death for the man she loved. And she had been right. Scott saw what Jimmy’s wife had done for Jimmy and although he did not have any real reference for it, he understood Jimm y’s love for her. But he did not envy it: he did not w ant the responsibility that love brings. Scott smiled at the girl. It felt like the first time he’d done so in a hundred years. “Hiya kid.” It was all he could come up with. “Hi Uncle A lan.” She pulled a rumpled envelope out of the pocket of her plain skirt. Even though she’d had it for a short while, Scott could see that the envelope was wrinkled and creased from having been opened and read many, many times. She held it out to him. Scott turned to P a u l-h e too had dropped his fighting stance, and the anger creasing his face was replaced by grief. Scott wondered if his face bore the same absent, haunted look. Scott took the letter from the girl’s outstretched hand and opened it up. Pauly

-

I f y o u ’re reading this, i t ’s because the w orst has happened. I never wrote anything like this before, but I ’d be lying i f I said th a t I d id n ’t have a bad feelin g about this job. A la n ’s convinced th a t this new bridge structure w ill be aces. I ’m not so sure. I d o n ’t even really care anymore. To tell you the truth, I ’d rather be o ff fig h tin g the Nazis. M aybe after this jo b is done I ’ll jo in the Foreign Legion or th a t Am erican brigade over in England. B u t A la n and I have been through hell and high

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water, so until we agree to call it quits, I ’m in all the way with him. I w ant you to know th a t D ekker is a bad character, worse than anything you or I ever dealt with, even when we were growing up. I can see in his eyes the same hate that Warden and Patterson and all those other bastards a t W illoughby H ouse had fo r us. B u t the difference between him and those other louses is th a t h e ’s got the ju ic e to do som ething w ith his hate. I f this job ends bad fo r me, I d o n ’t need to tell you and Rachel to take care o fA ly ssa . You know how rough it was on her when Beth died, but I know you love her like I do, and s h e ’ll need everything you can give her. B u t th a t’s not w hy I ’m writing this letter. I ’m writing this to tell you th a t i f som ething does happen to me, you can be sure th a t D ekker is behind it. D o n ’t let him and his kind get aw ay with it. See you in the fu n n y papers, brother. Jim m y

“Uncle Alan?” Scott realized that he was off his feet, sitting in the wooden bench along the wall. Paul leaned against the counter, head down and eyes lost in grief. Scott looked into the girl’s eyes, who seemed to be searching for an answer. “Yes, sweetheart?” he replied, his voice no more than a whisper. She asked the question honestly and w ithout accusation. Her expression was one o f hurt, as if Scott’s presence was an

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undeserved slap or a cutting remark. She was sad and wounded and she simply wanted to understand. The girl asked plaintively, “How come you’re the only one th a t’s still alive?”

CHAPTER

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omeone was ringing Scott’s apartment buzzer. First a polite ring, then short staccato bursts, then finally leaning on it steadily until Scott dragged himself off his couch, staggered

to his apartment door and cracked it open, leaving the chain lock in place. He could see Irene’s worried face through the crack and vaguely wondered if the way he looked justified Irene’s expression of deep pity and concern. “Go away,” he said hopelessly. “What happened out there Alan?” “I don’t know. Just go away.” “You can’t just lock yourself away. Talk to me. How did you get back to the city?” “Leave me alone! I’m not one of your goddam man-on-the-street interviews.” Scott slammed the door and leaned against it. At first he heard

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nothing and knew that she was standing there trying to figure out what to do. Finally, he heard her footsteps as she walked away. He stared at the lantern sitting on his coffee table. He knew what happened, what the lantern had given him, but did not want to believe it. But it had happened: Scott was sure of that. The lantern had saved him, given him freedom and brought him back. In one swift motion, Scott picked it up and smashed it into the brick fireplace. Not satisfied, he grabbed the iron poker and beat on the lantern as hard as he could. He was furious at it for saving him, and at himself for asking to be saved. Finally, his rage spent, he fell back on the floor, the poker slipping out of his hand and clattering beside him. He stared at the lantern, dusty from the fireplace ash but otherwise unmarred by his assault. Scott did not know how long he sat th ere-it could have been minutes or hours. Scott realized what he had to do. It was simple and perhaps he always knew it, but it took his will to drive him to the solution. He stood up and went to his bookcase. He moved three books-a collec­ tion of essays from Darwin, The Golden Bough by Frasier, and The Holy Bible—aside to reveal a small wall safe. Scott quickly dialed the combination and snapped open the safe. Inside, resting on a few documents was a .38 caliber Webley revolver. Scott pulled it out and flicked open the cylinder-the six shiny brass shells of the bullets were nestled in place, confirming the pistol’s readiness to Scott. He would find Dekker and kill him. No matter that he had no hard evidence; evidence wasn’t necessary—he knew Dekker had

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done it. But afterward he would leave Gotham forever. The only person in the world that would miss him was Irene, and he knew the selfishness of this act would hurt her, but probably not for long. His eyes sought out a faded photo of his crew, standing and kneeling in the mud before a bridge they had built on a new road through the Honduran jungle. His eyes played over the men’s faces, dirty, tired but all with expressions of pride for the work well done. Then Scott’s gaze settled on the lantern, sitting in the Fireplace. It was glowing. It pulsated as if feeding off Scott’s pain and confu­ sion He picked up the lantern. It spoke to him. “Three times shall I flame green... ” As he held it, the lantern became malleable, not so much softening but becoming plasmatic and pure as energy. Like a cell breaking off from a host being, a lump of soft metal separated from the lan­ tern into Scott’s hand. Scott molded, shifted and rolled this soft metal between his fin­ gers. With very little effort the piece of metal seemed to be making itself into something. Scott continued to roll it between his fingers until it slowly formed and hardened into a ring. He slipped it on his finger. And then... ...nothing. “You have been given life,” the lantern told him. “Now you have been given power.” Scott could take no more of the lantern’s riddles. “Tell me why!” he screamed at it. “To avenge death,” it replied.

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The death of his crew. He believed it, but the ring gave him a dose of cold sanity. “I must have been mad,” Scott said. “I wanted to kill a man... Dekker! No! I must fight him another way... ” The pounding on the door startled Scott, but this time he was glad to hear it. Irene would be the one person he could share this with. He rushed to the door, clacked off the locks and threw it open. But it was not Irene. Instead, two hard-case men in heavy dark suits with stone-chiseled faces stood in the doorway. The buzzer ringer was short, fat, dark and sweaty; the other leggy and gaunt. Scott could tell that the buzzer ringer was a flatfoot, and as he looked him over, Scott also knew that the tall one was no city cop: standing hunched in the doorway, he didn’t know what to do with his hands and was acting like a sinner in church—out of place and keenly aware that he was being judged. The two men looked over Scott with poker players’ neutral eyes. The short one spoke first. “Alan Scott?” “Who wants to know?” The buzzer ringer flashed a badge. “Lieutenant Barnes. Gotham P.D. This is Inspector... ” The taller man looked annoyed. “Chief Inspector Avant with the Denver bureau of the Interstate Commerce Commission.” Scott stared blankly at them. Barnes filled in the blank. “You’re under arrest,” “What are the charges?” Before Barnes could speak, Avant smoothly replied. “Twenty-four counts of negligent homicide and aggravated manslaughter.” Scott grinned tightly. “You ICC boys work fast.”

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Avant smiled back. “We aim to please.” Barnes, annoyed by the banter and the fact that he wasn’t part of it, cut in. He stepped into the apartment, pulled Scott’s overcoat off the wall hook and tossed it at him. “Get dressed, Scott. You’re going downtown.” Scott put on his coat and watched as his hand wearing the Green Lantern ring emerged from the Burberry’s sleeve. The ring was no longer glowing.

At the station house, Barnes showed Scott their evidence. The 8” x 10” photos of the wreck spared no detail. Impersonal and unflinching, they showed bodies as they lay. The fires were out, but smoke could be seen in the background from the smoldering wreckage. Worse yet, the photos showed that the fire had severely burned the bridge trestles, erasing any evidence of sabotage. Avant peered over Scott’s shoulder at the photos. “Quite a wreck,” the inspector said. Scott said nothing. “How is it you got back to Gotham so fast?” Avant asked. Scott tossed the photos on to the table and looked up at Avant. “I don’t know.” Barnes leaned back in his chair, looking over Scott. “Uh-huh. The only survivor, back at his apartment less than twenty-four hours after the crash.” Avant sipped his coffee. “What went wrong?” Scott thought about telling them about the sabotage but he had no way of proving it. All he could reply was, “I wish I knew.”

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Barnes scowled at Alan. “Look, Scott, the way we figure it, at the very least you’re a screw-up.” Barnes thrust the photos of the collapsed bridge in front of him. “Something made that bridge fall down. There’s no crime for stupid­ ity. But your being back so fast smells like you knew more. Maybe you cut corners to get the job done, but knew better than to be on it.” Avant calmly cut in. “Why weren’t you on the train?” “I was,” Scott calmly replied. Barnes, his anger working up, was getting impatient. “There’s no way you coulda’ been on the train and then back here,” the detective tensely uttered. “What, did you just up and walk away from this? Show me a plane ticket. You knew that bridge was gonna fail, so you high-tailed it out of there.” Scott sighed and picked up a photo—it was of the log he was trapped under, the spilled tar. There was no indication that he was ever there. Barnes shot a look at Avant. Scott had all the looks of a perpe­ trator about to break: a confession was around the comer and Barnes silently cued Avant to push Scott there. Avant sat down next to Scott. He wasn’t so much playing the good cop but the weary one; far from his house in the woods, his favorite chair and favorite bourbon, tired by the whole process of whittling down a man to get to the real story. Yet in his exhaustion he exuded an inevitability that he and the ICC would not be denied the truth. The only issue would be how long it would take. “Alan, I went over your plans for the bridge with some of the structural engineers. If you’ve worked at the Interstate Commerce

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Commission as long as I have, you’ve seen a lot of designs, both good and bad. I must say that yours are good-ingenious in many ways. But you took chances with this design, didn’t you?” He glanced sideways at Scott, expecting Scott’s reply. Scott shook his head. “It’s a sound design,” he said. “You’re blaming the wrong guy.” Barnes cut in. “What were you and Jimmy arguing about at the Flamingo Club?” “We were celebrating.” Avant leaned back in his chair once again. Barnes paced. Scott stared down at the table. The silence of the deadlock hung heavily in the interrogation room. Finally, Avant sighed. “Well, you’ll never work as an engineer again. Whether you do time or not, you’re washed up.” Barnes tried rushing the confession. “Just admit it, Scott. You wanted this contract bad, so you fudged some numbers to create this ‘revolutionary’ design. Then you rushed the job and this happened. Why don’t you come clean?” Scott swallowed. “It was sabotage. By... ” Dekker. We figured you’d say that. You got any proof of that?” Scott thought of Jimmy’s letter, but it didn’t prove anything. The bridge was burned, hiding the damage from the charges. Dekker had hidden his handiwork well. And the fact that he couldn’t explain his miraculous return to Gotham made Alan look very guilty indeed. Barnes pulled up a chair and sat on the other side of Scott, breathing his stale coffee-and-cigarette-breath into Scott’s face. “Look, just tell us what really happened. We’ll get it all down and

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sort it out. The only thing we want to know is, did you know it was going to give way, or did you believe your own claptrap?” Scott couldn’t picture himself telling them about the lantern. At best they’d be insulted that he’d try such a tall tale on them. At worst they’d believe he meant it and he’d spend the rest of his life in an asylum. Like his mother. Scott knew that that was not acceptable to him.

As Barnes and Avant continued to grill Scott, two men slipped in through the door and stood quietly against the wall. Both were dressed impeccably in dark pinstriped suits and held their hats in their hands. The older, more distinguished-looking man looked very comfortable in the dingy surroundings and listened intently to the conversation. The other man was younger-about Scott’s age, and, though dressed elegantly, he carried himself like an athlete. He stood on the balls of his feet, his eyes fixed on Scott. Scott had no idea who they were or what they were doing there. Finally, the two cops took notice, stopped their interrogation and turned to face the two men at the back of the room. They said nothing, but Barnes’ arched eyebrow revealed that he knew exactly who they were. The younger, athletic-looking stranger nodded to Scott. He seemed to know him but Scott had either forgotten or blocked the memory of their meeting. Barnes leaned back in his chair. “Looks like Scott’s got friends in high places.” The distinguished man smiled. “Yes, indeed.” “You’re here for him?”

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“We’ve been authorized to post bond for Mister Scott should he be arrested. We also have some documents that we think you gen­ tlemen will find interesting.” The older man opened his alligator-skinned briefcase and placed two folders on the scarred-up table. “The first is the plan submission. You’ll see that the signature is Mister Shustak’s. Also, the purchase order, equipment chits and payrolls are all signed by Shustak.” Avant stubbed out his cigarette. “Who is this character?” Barnes smiled humorlessly. “Avant, this here is Frederick Woodhull. He’s the priciest lawyer we got in Gotham; the wellheeled hood’s best friend. Not a back room deal goes by that doesn’t have his big fat thumbprint on it.” Woodhull smiled indulgently back at Barnes. “Now, now, let’s have none of that, shall we?” he said, a benevolent uncle coddling a pouting, unreasonable child. The younger man stepped forward and did something that no man had ever done to Scott—he wrapped his arms around him and gave him a long hug. He looked Scott in the face and smiled warmly. “Glad you made it back okay, brother,” he said, “We were worried about you.” He pulled a silver case from his coat pocket and snapped it open, offering Scott a cigarette. Scott realized he had no choice but to go along with whatever was being played out. He took the Woodbine from him and, while sharing a light off of the guy’s gold-plated lighter, Scott looked into his face. The man was in his early thirties, dark hair, expensive haircut and evenly tanned face, not from work but from outdoor

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sports. The man smiled at him, but his eyes were black. Scott instantly did not trust him. “Bet you’re ready to get the hell out of here, huh? Let’s go get a steak and some beers.” Scott shrugged. “Sure. Why not.” Woodhull stepped forward. “Mister Scott, we have a car waiting to take you home. Mister Faraday will... ” Avant perked up at that name. “James Faraday? Of Dekker Industries?” “One and the same.” Avant turned to the cop next to him. “Something stinks here, Barnes. Stinks bad.” Woodhull spoke up. “If anything smells foul, it’s the ham-handed investigation that’s wasted my client’s time during a period of mourning. The man’s just lost his friends, and you drag him in here on hearsay not even strong enough to be called circumstantial. I’d say your careers are on the line, gentlemen. This won’t look good for either of you.” Avant’s jaw dropped open but Barnes waved his hand. “Stuff it, Woodhull. Save your malarkey for your mobster clientele and those stacked decks of rubes you call juries.” Woodhull waved his finger—the slightness of the gesture showing a sureness of personal power. Avant had been reviewing the documents Woodhull presented. “He’s right about the signatures, Barnes. It’s all Shustak.” Barnes turned to Scott. And, although he was a full five inches

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shorter, did his best to get into Scott’s face. It would have been comical if Barnes’ posture weren’t so taut and ready for violence. “I thought maybe you were a screw-up. Maybe you got sloppy and killed your men with your greed. But having this snake in the room tells me that you’re low, Scott. You’re blaming this on your dead partner. I know the score on this one. I’m going to see to it that you bum .” Scott felt Barnes’ rage hitting him like heat from a blowtorch. He welcomed it. “I think you’re right, Barnes. And I deserve everything coming to me. In spades.” Faraday cut between the two men. “Okay Barnes, you’ve had your say. Let’s go home, Scott. Come on—you’ve had a long day, buddy.” Faraday gently but firmly steered Scott out of the room.

Faraday walked Scott out of the police station and down the steps to a waiting black limousine. As they approached it, someone inside flung open the door. Scott saw that there was another vehicle behind the limo, and it appeared to be filled with four large men, sitting in the darkness of the car, smoking. Scott could see the glow of the cigarettes as they took deep drags. Scott turned to Faraday. “Think I’ll walk home, if that’s okay with you.” Faraday smiled at Scott. “I’d prefer that you ride with me. I have something I wish to dis­ cuss with you.” Something in Faraday’s tone made Scott accept his offer.

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Faraday and Scott sat alone in the back of the limo as it streaked through the streets of Gotham. Faraday reached into his open briefcase behind him and handed him a document. Scott looked at it- it was a contract for employment at Dekker Industries. “We understand you’ve been through a tremendous ordeal but we’d like you to consider an offer to come work for us.” “My bridge just fell down. Seems like an odd time to bring me on board.” “On the contrary. We saw your talent when you bid against us for the job. And now that you’ve fallen on hard times, we see this as an opportunity to bring your tremendous skills to Dekker Indus­ tries.” “And to shut me up. I wasn’t supposed to survive that crash, and now that I’m alive you’ve got a problem.” “Alan, we can arrange it so that Jimmy takes the blame for this horrible incident. He’s dead—in a few years no one will remember. But you’re still alive, Alan. And you’ve got to consider your future.” “You think I’d let Jimmy take the rap for this? Let me tell you something: I’ll take prison over Dekker Industries any day of the week. I don’t care if I end up locked up forever-I’m going to make sure that Dekker pays for what he did to my partner and my crew.” “That’s jake with me, you cocky son of a bitch,” Faraday snarled. “I’ll retract that offer now.” Faraday pulled Scott’s Webley pistol from his pocket and pointed the business end at Scott’s gut. “I took the liberty of removing this from your apartment after the authorities had taken you in,” said Faraday. The shiny black and chrome limo looked out of place as it tore

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through the dead-end ramshackle blocks of Gotham’s loading docks. The streets were deserted and a heavy mist clung to the air. Scott sat across from Faraday in the limousine, Faraday still pointing the pistol at him, occasionally gesturing casually with it, as if it was a drink or a cigar. “No one saw you get in this car with me,” Faraday said, ’’and when your body washes up in river after the spring thaw, they’ll assume you walked down to the river and, overwhelmed by guilt, used your own gun to kill yourself. If we can’t buy your silence, we’ll guarantee it in this manner.” Faraday rapped his leather-gloved knuckles against the glass partition. The driver had been waiting for this signal and pulled the car over in a desolate cul-de-sac bordered by empty warehouses. Faraday moved so he was sitting next to Scott, and pressed the barrel against Scott’s chest. Scott felt rage building within himself. Sabotage was the case, and here was the man who caused it. Scott had only one thought: revenge. “It’s good that you’re going to kill me Faraday, because that’s what it’s going to take to stop me. “ Faraday cocked the gun. “I aim to please.” Faraday pulled the trigger. The shot of the pistol rang out loud and flat like a slap in the enclosed space of the limo. The smoke cleared and Scott sat smiling at Faraday. Faraday, thinking he’d missed, fired again. And again and again, until all six shots were spent, each one of them entering, slipping through and exiting Alan Scott’s body as if were cutting through gelatin.

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The gun smoke cleared, and Faraday sat stunned, staring at Scott. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, one reflecting vindication and pure malicious revenge, the other’s confusion and deep fear. After the shots, silence hung in the air like a shroud. Faraday called out to his men. “He must have on bullet-proof vest. Club him down!” Scott lunged forward. His first punch caught Faraday on the nose-both men heard the queasy snap of breaking cartilage and bone. Scott could tell that he possessed normal strength, yet he had been immune to the bullets. Scott felt the rush of cold air as the door of the limo swung open. Two of Faraday’s men grabbed at Scott. He rolled onto his back and kicked at the men as they reached into the car. His kick caught the first one in the throat, the man’s hand instinctively flying to his Adam’s apple as he struggled to breathe. Scott was about to connect with the testicles of the other man when the car door he was leaning against opened, sending him tumbling backwards onto the wet pavement. Two more of Faraday’s men, bull-like in their ill-fitting suits, stood over Scott and kicked at him with all their might, one stabbing at him with a stilletto, the other hitting him with a heavy wooden club. The blade broke against Scott’s skin, but the club’s blow made Scott see stars. Scott thought that the lantern’s powers of immunity apparently worked only against metals. Scott felt remarkably calm. He knew the ring was giving him these powers, driven by his will. The men had expressions of shock and incredulity, but they continued to do their best to lay into Scott.

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As he balled his hand into a fist, he saw that the ring on his hand was throwing off a strange green light. He swung his fists at the men and although he was not stronger, his punches took the fight out of them, and the others lay unconscious on the far side of the car. Scott stood surveying the results, breathing and sweating heavily. Then he looked into the limo. There was no sign of Faraday. Scott sat heavily on the curb, looking at his hands, the green ring glowing fiercely now, pulsating with eveiy beat of his heart and every breath he took. His mind could not sort out all that had happened. Only one emotion occupied his mind, blocking out all reason. He wanted revenge. Dekker was responsible for the death of his men and his partner. Faraday had tried to kill him. Scott had lost too much, and the only images that filled his mind as he made his way uptown was the battered corpses of good men and the grief etched in the face of a little girl. Again he looked at the green ring on his finger. His will fed it. He wanted to get Faraday. He willed this in his heart. And in doing so he felt his body rise and fly, above the waterfront, until he was hundreds of feet in the air. By willing it, he flew over the magnificent city, towards that which he wanted. And within minutes he landed in front of the city mansion that he knew belonged to Dekker. He looked at his hand-the ring from the lantern had done this, brought him here, protected him from others and even himself. He knew he had but to will what he wanted and the ring would make it happen. So he willed himself inside the mansion, passing like a ghost

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through the heavy, dead-bolted doors into the majestic marble foyer, then floating up the massive, curving stairs, over the floors of the thickly carpeted hall to the huge study. A fire burned in a large fireplace, and the mantle was covered with memorabilia from safaris and hunting trips around the world: stuffed animals, mounted snarling heads of bagged big game, flayed skins as rugs and along walls. Mixed with this were dozens of antique globes showing flawed perceptions of the world, polished brass fittings from whaling ships, and a wall of antique weapons: blunderbusses, spears, bolos, flint­ lock pistols and machetes. It revealed a personality of a man well traveled and firm in the belief of his own superiority and dominance over other animals, cultures and men. Scott stood in the middle of the room, standing in front of the fire. Faraday was at the huge bar, sloppily pouring himself a tumbler of vodka and drinking it down like water, the glass trembling in his hand. He had tried to wipe the blood from his broken nose, but much of it remained caked on, discoloring the vodka in his glass as he tilted back another swallow. Scott was disappointed to see that Faraday was a coward. Cowards were pathetic: inflicting pain on them, killing them, gave no satis­ faction. But then again, killing was never satisfying. That’s why Dekker could not stop with just one bagged animal. Scott stepped out of the shadows. “It’s time to pay, Faraday. You and Dekker.” Faraday froze, the glass still at his lips. Very slowly, he lowered the glass and turned to face Scott. Scott took a step forward.

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Faraday reached for something—anything to protect himself. And as he did so he kept talking, trying to buy himself a few seconds. “It was business, Scott.” “Business?” Maybe inflicting pain on Faraday would bring some satisfaction after all. Faraday continued to move backwards, along the wall, keeping up his nervous patter to Scott. “You think we wouldn’t do everything in our power to beat you? You were arrogant enough to outbid us with your precious new design, so we were happy to let you think you’d won. Until, of course, the moment you lost.” “This isn’t a game. Those men are dead.” For once, Faraday’s laughter and expression were utterly sincere. “Of course it’s not a game. Business is war, Scott. And wars have casualties.” Scott’s face became hard again. He moved towards Faraday, his hands now clawlike. “And in business there are no prisoners, right, Faraday?” Faraday reached up behind him. His hands found and gripped an antique Mongolian spear. In one swift motion Faraday pulled it off the wall and swung it blindly at Scott, the wooden spear making a whooshing sound as it cut through the air, Faraday emitting a highpitched wheeze of panic and fright as he desperately fought for his life. The tip of the wooden spear caught Scott in the temple, sending him reeling back and stumbling against the leather chair. Faraday saw that he had an opening and, like a good fighter, pressed his attack. He leapt at Scott, smashing the spearlike a club against Scott’s upraised arms, neck and forehead.

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Scott, still reeling from the first blow to the temple, fended off Faraday as best he could. He could feel the strikes of the wooden spear against his wrists and forearms. They were as real as any he’d ever suffered, and he winced in pain. Faraday, surprised at his advantage, turned the spear in his hand and quickly tried to drive the wooden tip into Scott’s heart. But just as quickly, Scott deflected Faraday’s lunge, rolling away from the attack and thrusting his arm in the way of the needle-sharp tip, which deflected off Scott’s arm and drove deeply into his right side, just above the third rib. Scott grimaced as the shock of the stabbing rippled through him. But before Faraday could pull the spear out and stab again, Scott turned to Faraday and with both hands grabbed his neck and began squeezing with all his strength, his thumbs searching out Faraday’s eyes. Slowly Scott gained an advantage, pushing himself off the floor until he and Faraday were locked in a stalemate. But as they struggled Scott could feel the blood surging out of the wound to his side. He didn’t know how long he could hold against Faraday, and did his best to jam his thumbs into Faraday’s eyes, betraying nothing but primordial determination to kill before being killed. Scott jumped from the pain as Faraday desperately jammed the spear deeper into his body, then tried ripping it back out. Scott could feel himself graying out from the pain, and saw Faraday’s grimace turn into a triumphant grin. Scott’s grip on Faraday slowly loosened as Faraday dug the spear deeper into his body. A loud bang echoed through the large room, and Scott felt

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something push through his body. He felt Faraday’s body snap to rigidity, as if shocked, then instantly fall limp. Faraday slumped over, his head cracking against the polished marble, eyes frozen wide open, blood pumping out of a small hole in his back, then settling to an ooze. Scott looked down at the dead man, then turned to see who fired the shot. At the doorway stood a slight, gray-haired man whose face looked to be in his seventies, but whose body seemed as fit as a younger man. He held an antique .45 Smith and Wesson revolver in his right hand, the wisp of smoke from the fired round still curling from the barrel. Albert Dekker.

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cott looked down at the spear sticking perversely from this body. His hand grabbed the thick wooden shaft, and he slowly pulled it out. As he did so, the ring on his finger glowed bright

green. After an eternity of pain, the spear, smeared with rich red blood, came loose. What happened next should have shocked Scott, but a presence in his mind made it seem as natural as sleep. As his hand passed over his wound, he could see the puckered skin sealing itself under the spilled, drying blood. Again, the ring pulsated with the rhythm of his heart, and Scott watched his body move from the abyss, and he knew then that the ring and the lantern were the source of his power. Scott got to his feet, the spear still in his hand. Dekker stood, his expression betraying no emotion, the pistol at his side. It was impossible for Scott to tell if he intended to use it again. His eyes roamed over the scene in front of him: Faraday’s corpse, Scott smeared in blood but healed, the spear in his hand.

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Finally, Dekker spoke slowly and deliberately. “What the devil is this about?” “You tell me,” Alan said. “I have no idea. I saw you and Faraday struggling and... and... ” Dekker looked down at the pistol in his hand. He put it on the oak table. Strangely, it seemed to fit in well as a decoration against the rich grained wooden table, under the soft light of the Tiffany lamp. Scott stared at Dekker. “Who were you aiming at?” “Why, Faraday, of course!" Dekker replied. “I felt the bullet pass through my body,” Scott said as he slowly rose to his feet, nursing his wound. Dekker watched Scott get to his feet. “How could that be? How could any of this be? I thought you’d perished in that horrible accident. And to find you here with Faraday...! But I’m so glad to see you’re well!” Dekker, smiling, took a step forward but something in Scott’s stance made him stop. “You had my men killed,” Scott said flatly. Dekker stopped smiling. “Don’t be ridiculous. That was his doing.” Dekker nodded towards Faraday’s body. “Easy to say, now that he’s a stiff.” Dekker looked beseechingly at Scott. “See here, Alan, I shot Faraday because he was out to take over my company. Yes, I hired him because he was ruthless. I need ruthless men working for me if I’m to survive in this world. But he turned against me. I saw that he was about to kill you, so what could I do?” Scott went to the bar and poured himself a drink. He felt tired in

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a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. His soul was weary. He did not want to hear what the old man had to say, but he was compelled to find out, for his men, for Jimmy and most of all for Alyssa. He took a drink of bourbon and braced himself. Without turning to face Dekker, Scott asked, “What about the bridge?” Dekker looked shocked. “My God, Alan, how could you think I would do such a thing. That was Faraday’s doing. I swear.” Scott slammed the empty glass down on the bar. “That can’t be.” Scott looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Worse yet, the ring’s light seemed to be fading. He could start to feel a dull pain growing in his side, where the spear’s wound was. Faraday took a step towards Scott, his hands out, imploring. “Alan, there’s no reason why we can’t work together. Faraday would have done to me what he was going to do to you. You and I—we did each other a favor tonight. Let’s partner. There’ll be no stopping us.” “Those men—“ “Yes—I’ve already thought of that.” Dekker pulled small key from his pocket and stepped to a locked wall cabinet. Opening it, he pulled a small satchel from the cabinet and opened it up for Scott. The bag was filled with bundles of cash: hundred-dollar bills wrapped together like money bricks. Dekker looked into Scott’s eyes. “When I heard about the disaster, I thought of donating my own money to help. If you don’t mind, I thought that we could use it set up a trust for the families of the men who lost their lives. I can arrange for this straight away.” “Cash, huh? You think of everything, don’t you, Dekker?” Scott

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reached for the glass on the bar and took a long, deep gulp. He put his drink down, his head bowed. “Jimmy... ” Dekker slowly put his arm around Scott’s shoulders. “We’re cut from the same cloth, Alan. I couldn’t trust Faraday. He turned against me. He knew you’d defeat him in business, so he resorted to this sordidness. Not taking the offer shows your integrity.” Scott’s eyes narrowed. “Offer?” “Yes, the job offer.” Dekker pointed to the crumpled contract on the floor. “But you said Faraday acted on his own.” Dekker stepped away from Scott, his expression becoming guarded and neutral. “Yes. What of it?” “You knew about it,” Scott said. “You told Faraday to buy me out. That means you knew about the sabotage.” Dekker turned away from Scott. “I meant what I said about you being enormously talented. I could use someone like you. But I did not have anything to do with him trying to kill you or your crew.” Scott felt a surge of energy pulse through him -w as it anger? It had the form of certainty, truth discovered, the last puzzle piece fitting in to reveal the entire picture. Dekker stepped away from the bar. He dropped the spear. “I wanted Alan Scott.” Now it was Scott’s turn to step towards Dekker. “Maybe Alan Scott’s lying dead in that ravine.” Dekker turned to face Scott. “Then who stands before me?” “Vindication.” Dekker raised his hand-he once again had the pistol. This time it was clearly pointed at Scott.

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Dekker smiled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry Alan. You are a bril­ liant engineer and I considered your miraculous survival a great opportunity for the both of us. We could have made millions together. But instead you choose to maintain allegiance to that gutter trash, even now that he’s dead. Noble I suppose, but ultimately pointless. You are better than that type, Alan. I recognized that in you and gave you a chance, but you want to squander it for some immigrant trash.” Scott stepped towards Dekker. “I’ve got something for you and your type, Dekker, and I can’t wait to give it to you.” Dekker fired all five remaining shots into Scott’s chest. And, like before, Scott felt the slugs pulse through his body, and he could hear them thud into the wall and furniture behind him. Scott grabbed Dekker by the throat, his gaze burning into Dekker’s eyes, searching his soul. In that instant, Scott saw into Dekker’s deepest fear... ...a seven year-old boy, innocent, playfully escaping from his nanny. The boy, bright beyond his years, neglected and treated as chattel by his rich, bored parents, out to find trouble. And he did; scampering away in the vast mansion, running as his exasperated young nanny chases after him. He runs to his mother’s room, looking for her and not finding her, he runs to the window. But he is moving too fast to stop himself and he collides with the window -the louvered doors swing open. And suddenly he is dangling in space, his arms straining to hang on, the concrete driveway thirty feet below him, high enough to kill or cripple the fragile little boy. He screams with all his might at the first fear that he cannot have

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his servants remove. Finally his nanny enters the room, rushes to save him. Then horribly, she stops, a sly grin crossing her young peasant face, the foreign mistress to his uncaring father, and the only person young Albert thought loved him. To see her enjoying his fear, rel­ ishing it, her hatred for his wealth and breeding, her laughter and delight at his abject terror: hardens him -and even as he struggles to live something inside of him dies. His hands hold for as long as they can, but he is a weak child and his perspiring palms slither over the brass latch. He feels himself falling. And with the falling came complete and utter terror. The terror multiplied by the knowledge that she let him fall. The child awakes in his bed, both legs in still-damp plaster casts, surrounded by a doctor and fussing nurses. He remembers that his mother (more often than not) is away in Europe, collecting art. His father stands in the doorway of the child’s toy-stuffed bedroom, puffing on a meerschaum pipe, his face devoid of expression as he patiently awaits the doctor’s prognosis. His dark-haired nanny is nowhere to be seen and he never sees her again, nor does he want to. He is done with her and all people like her. He would experience that same fall countless nights to come. And that dream, the feel of that fall, would haunt him until he could escape the nightmare by waking up, his breath caught in his throat, his heart racing, the rich silk sheets damp with his sweat. And Scott knew Dekker's deepest fear. Now back in the present out of Dekker’s mind, Scott knew what to do to get Dekker’s confession. His hand still clasping Dekker by the throat, the two of them began to rise. Scott raised his arms as

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they smashed through the massive skylight of the mansion and continued to fly straight up in the chilling rain, then into the spongy wetness of the low, heavy clouds. Then they were above the clouds that spread out across the horizon like an ocean, the brilliant stars above them. Scott let them both feel the freezing chill of the rarified air, let them both gasp at the lack of oxygen at that altitude. He could feel his hand around Dekker’s neck, and Dekker’s clawlike hands gripping his arm, terrified of letting go, of falling. As they went higher, Scott could see Dekker consumed with fright as his fear of heights paralyzed all rational thought. “Did you sabotage that bridge?” Dekker said nothing. Scott let go for a second and Dekker plunged to Earth. His scream caught in his throat and he choked on it. The wind tore at his robe as he fell through the night sky, then into the grayness of clouds, and then coming through to see Gotham below him, growing larger by the second. Dekker’s fear was rampant, his eyes bugged at the sight and the terrifying sensation of his youthful phobia amplified exponentially. Then in an instant he stopped, his legs dangling in the air. Scott had caught up to him and once again suspended him in mid-air, thousands of feet above the city. Rain pelted the men, soaking both as they hovered above Gotham’s night sky. Scott looked into Dekker’s eyes and asked again. “Did you give the order?” “Yes!” Dekker croaked. “Did you have my men killed?” “Yes! Yes! Please don’t let me fall! Please!” And there he had it: Dekker’s confession. But what to do now?

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Turning him over to the authorities would do no good. Dekker would simply buy his way out of the situation, surely to laugh about it at the club later. Scott would not let him slip behind the protection of his cronies at City Hall. Scott decided that he would make Dekker sign his own confession. He lowered Dekker slowly to back to the clouds and rain, through the hole in the roof back down to the floor of the mansion. Rain was soaking the Persian carpet, and shattered glass lay everywhere. Dekker fell to the floor and curled himself in a tight ball. The icy rain continued to pelt him as he shivered from the cold and fear. Scott felt the energy surge diminish like an adrenaline hit wearing off. He became weary once again and sat down on the leather couch. He stared into the dying embers of the fire, remembering other fires not so long ago. Scott sat at Dekker’s desk and drafted a confession. A noise brought his head up... ...and two meek, uniformed servants ducked their heads from the doorway. Scott heard the clicking of their heels receding as they fled down the long hallway. “Not me... ” Scott turned to the old man. He hadn’t moved but his shivering was stronger, more violent. “Not my doing... ” Scott went and stood over the old man. He put the confession on the floor next to Dekker and put a pen in his hand. He even poised the pen so that all Dekker would have to do is scribble his name. “You killed my men. You ordered it.” "... Faraday... ”

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Seott grabbed the old man, pulled him up and looked into his eyes. “You confessed!” “ I... was... afraid. I... didn’t... ” And then Dekker’s shivering stopped and his eyes lost focus. Scott screamed at him. “‘Didn’t’ what? You ‘didn’t’ what? You killed my men! You killed my best friend!” Scott threw the dead man to the floor. He saw the unsigned con­ fession next to him and picked it up. He stared at Faraday’s and Dekker’s corpses. He had defeated these men. He’d become judge, jury and executioner, and with him lay the crushing gravity of all that that implied. He looked at the ring. He could see that the power of its glow had faded with his will for vengeance. Scott saw that the problem with his vengeance was its consequences. He realized that revenge is a hard line of work for anyone less than the righteous. He had just killed a hateful, morally corrupt man who just might be innocent of the brutality that Scott had come to avenge. As he looked at the confession and the suitcase of cash, he also realized that in this moment, he had more in common with his enemies than their victims. Voices boomed in the hallway as sirens grew louder outside. Scott snapped shut the suitcase of cash and picked it up. He looked up, took to the air and was gone.

The day of the funeral was cold but beautiful. The sky was as clear and blue as the Colorado blue Scott had stared up into a few days ago.

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The funeral itself was simple but elegant. Hundreds had turned out to pay their respects to Albert Dekker. Employees, shareholders, board members, politicians, heads of charities, and the curious who had come to see what it looked like when a great man was laid to rest. Scott stood anonymously in the crowd, his hand clutching the suitcase he had taken from Dekker’s mansion. The crowd watched as the procession walked from the open grave. Scott could see a young girl Alyssa’s age, weeping and being held by beautiful woman. The woman had to be Dekker’s daughter and the girl his granddaughter. Scott saw that the little girl knew nothing of the world at this moment other than the man who doted on her, made her laugh and brought her beautiful things-that man was taken away from her forever. Scott turned his back and pushed his way through the crowd.

CHAPTER

8 I

rene Miller pulled a strand of her long black hair away from her face and bent down to inspect the ragged, fleshy grapefruit­ sized hole in the saxophone player’s stomach. Parts of internal

organs, along with fragments of bone, were scattered on the floor of the cold-water flat. She could hear the hacking coughs of the beat cops in the hallway behind her, retching at the sight of the kid’s body. He’d been there for a couple days, and what hadn’t congealed was rotting in the humidity of the cramped studio apartment. Fletcher Beasley stood across from Irene, not so much interested in the stiff as Irene herself. The young, immaculately groomed detective gave a little smile as he watched her look over the dead musician. New to the crime beat, Irene was focused on Beasley’s cases and had an eye for clues. She’d even helped him break a few. When it came to homicides, the lady was better than a telepathic bloodhound.

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A frown crossed her face and Beasley knew she’d seen something unusual. “What’s the matter?” Beasley asked. “This kid wasn’t at D’Amico’s,” Irene replied. “My dear, what you’re looking at right here is the oldest story in the world. Of course he was.” “How so?” she asked. “I have a witness,” Beasley smugly said. “It was a lover’s quarrel. She was ending it with him because the hubby got wise. Upset, he comes home but the jig is already up-jealous husband is waiting here, ready to ventilate him with his scattergun.” “When did this lover’s quarrel take place?” “After his gig at D’Amico’s last night. Where else?” “That’s what I’m telling you, Fletch. This kid wasn’t at D’Amico’s last night.” “You wanna clue me in?” Beasley said. Irene pointed. “Look at his guts—what’s pourin’ there out of his stomach?” Beasley bent down to examine the body, pulling back from the stench of the death. Irene tapped him on the head. “No, knucklehead, not the stomach cavity, the actual stomach right there on the floor, next to the lamp. That’s moo goo gai pan spilling out of it. The kid was in Chinatown, probably playing Madame Wong’s.” The detective leaned into the puddle of guts, blood and bits of food. The beat cops, still shaky from their last bout of heaving, watched in disbelief. Beasley got to his knees and practically buried his nose into the

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stomach that had been ripped from the dead man’s body from the force of the shotgun blast. “That does look like pork fried rice... ” the detective mumbled. Irene leaned in over the entrails with the detective. “May I?” she asked. “By all means.” Irene plucked two pencils from the detective’s coat pocket and, using them like chopsticks, carefully fished a small crescent-shaped piece of half-chewed nut from the dead man’s spilled stomach. She held it up for Beasley to see. “Cashews!” Irene exclaimed. “Who puts cashews in their fried rice? Only Madame Wong's.” Beasley frowned and shrugged as if to say “You’ve got a point.” Irene continued. “That makes your witness a suspect. My guess is that lover-boy here ended it with her, and she wasn’t the type to take rejection, uh, lying down.” Beasley mulled it over, then nodded. “The forensics are kinda shaky, but the M.O. holds together nicely. I’ll check it out.” Irene gave a sudden girlish smile of giddy triumph. She handed the blood-smeared pencils back to Beasley. The detective huffed to his feet. “You’re good at this kind of thing, Irene. You know that?” “What can I say? I know how a girl lies.” “You ever want a job on the force, you come see me. I’ll make you a detective in a heartbeat.” Irene went from working as the station’s receptionist to a full­ time reporting gig in less than a year. Her ability to dig into a story

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like a tick and not let go forced her boss to acknowledge her talents as he promoted her to a position that made him look even better. “Thanks Fletch, but I got a job. Speaking of which, I’m on dead­ line—you mind having one of your boys give me a ride back to the radio station when they’re done giving up their coffee and dough­ nuts?” “No problem.” The beat cops, still green, stepped gingerly into the room, covering their mouths with their handkerchiefs. Beasley waved one over. “Bondini, if you can see straight, give Miss Miller a ride back to her radio station. And make sure you chew a stick of Beeman’s.” The younger cop nodded and made his way unsteadily to the apartment door. Irene followed, taking notes on the story she was about to file. She turned to the busy detective. “Say Fletch, you wanna get a bite to eat later? I wanna talk to you about the Dekker thing.” Fletcher looked at her w arily-he knew her interest in the case was beyond professional. But he also knew that of all the reporters he’d dealt with, Irene Miller was not to be denied, and it was infin­ itely better to work with her than against her. “It’s not officially a murder yet,” Beasley said. “But you name the joint and Poppa’ll be there.” Irene finished writing in her notebook. “All this talk of Chinese put me in the mood.” She looked down at the ribbons of entrails from the dead man’s abdomen, spilled all over the oak floor. “How about we meet up for some rice noodles?” she asked.

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Fletch winked at her. “Madame Wong’s?” “Natch. Can’t argue with those cashews. They’re to die for.” Irene winked. Irene was out the door and the beat cops were back in the bath­ room in a dead heat, desperate to win the race to the toilet.

Irene poured fresh green tea for Beasley as they sat in the shoddy vinyl booth of the empty Chinese restaurant. The late-night shift of bored busboys and waiters lounged on empty chairs in back, idly smoking amidst the gay, brightly lit red-and-black lanterns. Beasley lazily spun the lacquer teacup on the table. “So whattaya want to know?” “How cold are your leads on the Dekker case?” Irene asked. “Cold.” “Don’t play me on this one, Fletch.” The detective looked up from his tea. “Look, I got everyone from the governor on down looking to see someone fry for this one. And my guess is that someone’s pressuring them. If I had a lead I wouldn’t be sitting here gabbing with you.” Irene stubbed her cigarette into the cold fried rice. Beasley leaned in to whisper to her. “He’s not a suspect.” “Who?” Irene said. “Don’t be coy. You know who. Your vouching for him is good enough for me." Irene shot a glance at the detective, who was busy using his chopsticks to fish out a piece of broccoli from his noodles. The nonchalance of his last statement troubled Irene—was Fletch testing her? Did he believe what she told him about being with Scott on

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the night of the killings? And did she reveal too much by calling for this meeting? Damn cops—they never stop working. Just like reporters. She decided to try another tack. “Well, what about this Green Lantern character?” “What about him?” “Isn’t it a bit strange that a week after Dekker’s murder, this guy shows up out of nowhere, fighting crime all over the city?” Beasley looked puzzled. “Are you saying the Green Lantern killed Dekker? You mind connecting those dots for me?” Irene shrugged. “I can’t. It was just a shot.” “So what’s troubling you Irene? You got something to tell me?” Again, Fletcher was busy with his meal, which confirmed to Irene that, in Beasley’s head Scott was still a suspect. She made a point of waiting until Fletcher looked her in the eyes, then said, “No, I got nothing. I just want this story.” If Beasley didn’t believe her, he was too much of a gentleman to give that away. “Well, if you can prove Green Lantern had anything to do with it, I’m all ears,” the cop said. “This guy has caused a fifty percent drop in crime. There isn’t a citizen on the streets that he hasn’t helped.” Irene smiled a crooked grin. “He’s a saint, huh?” Beasley ignored her cynicism. “I’m not saying he’s as pure as the driven snow. I don’t know why he’s doing what he’s doing. And until I’m given a strong reason, I’m not going to question his good work.” “You’re sounding like a real convert, Fletch.”

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“Look, the guy’s a mensch,” Beasley insisted. “He’s going around stopping all the petty criminals in the city and breaking up racket­ eers and crime syndicates. That’s a big jump from killing one of the richest, most respected men in the country.” “Everyone knows Dekker was crooked. He and his sleazy hench­ man Faraday,” Irene said emphatically. The cop nodded. “Fine. Like I said, connect those dots and I’ll have a collar and you’ll have a scoop. I just don’t see what you’ve got against a do-gooder like the Green Lantern.” Irene sat back in the booth. “I haven’t been a reporter for long, but I know enough to know that anyone doing that much good has got something to hide.” Beasley was tired, but he saw how troubled Irene was. He’d never seen her stick her neck out for anyone. He liked Alan Scott as well. But he was almost insulted that she’d dangle a Green Lantern lead as a red herring. He rubbed his eyes. He’d give her something to chew on—maybe then he could get some rest. “What I’m about to tell you is off the record. There’s a good chance that the report’s going to say that Dekker shot Faraday and died of a heart attack. Case closed and good riddance. Dekker’s family will go along with that because the more we dig, the more dirt we’re finding on Dekker himself.” Irene broke into a relieved smile, and despite himself, Beasley did the same. For a moment the detective speculated that maybe there was justice in this world. But just as quickly he dismissed the idea as far too dangerous for anyone in his line of work to believe. He pulled a wad of cash out of his vest pocket to settle up the bill.

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The detective tossed a fortune cookie to Irene. “Now open your goddamned fortune cookie so we can get the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER

9 P

aul Shustak bent over the line of dough, carefully and rapidly splitting out small lengths and wrapping them into circles. It was rote work made near perfect from doing it every day, six

days a week, every month for a decade. Like his brother, Paul had been given nothing in life and earned everything he had. The poverty of his youth had given him the discipline of survival; he learned to waste nothing. More importantly, he learned that everything had a use. A stint in the Army after the orphanage gave him the skill to cook, and after he mustered out he’d decided to open his own bakery. The small waterfront neighborhood was the only place he could afford to rent, so he came in as a stranger, cleaning out the formerly abandoned storefront space, trapping rats, hauling off years of garbage piled in the basement, cutting down weeds in the back that had the bulk of trees. And there was resentment at his presence, not so much because of his background but because he was not from the small neighbor-

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hood. Not being bom and raised in the dockside tenements made Paul an interloper, worthy of suspicion, speculation and hate. Those that lived there wished they could leave and could not believe that anyone would want to come in to stay. When Paul opened the bakery, a group of locals with nothing better to do but glare at him from the windows of the nearby ale house made it their sport to try running the interloper out. For a while, Paul had to cope with broken windows, the usual hate graffiti, and an occasional midnight fire in his garbage pails. But he expected it. It was consistent with what had been dished out to him since he was bom —why should that change now? So he replaced the broken panes, washed out the bum t-out pails and painted over the misspelled graffiti. Eventually Paul’s persistence in rebuilding and reopening wore down the short-attention-spanned bigots and, more importantly, won him some admiring, dedicated customers. That had been ten years ago. Now the entire community saw him as a leader, and they looked to him when it came to making any decisions that affected their neighborhood. Like his brother, Paul hated to see innocents in harm’s way. He could not resist getting involved and helping others. It was why his business would never prosper: he was quick to give away food to those who needed it, and while it won him respect, it kept him poor. But the way Paul saw it, helping those down on their luck was an investment of another sort, and he merely assumed the dividends would be paid later on. And so, with his wife and niece still asleep in the two-room apartment upstairs, Paul came down before dawn to the ritual pre­

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paration of the day’s baking, not so much happy but accepting of a life he could not see living any other way. Just as he prepared to knead the dough, a suitcase dropped onto the counter before him with a heavy thud, a cloud of powdery flour puffing out like a soft miniature explosion. Paul was startled to see Scott standing across the counter: he hadn’t heard him come in. Scott was wearing a rumpled brown overcoat, the collar up. He had the look of someone concealing something. “How did you get in here?” Scott ignored the question. “Open the bag.” Paul could see in the predawn gloom that Scott’s face had a changed quality: although he was attempting to be cheerful, there was a troubled shadow like a veil across his face. “Go on—open it up.” Paul clacked open the brass latches and looked inside the alligator leather case. What he saw made him give out a long, low whistle. “Where’d this come from?” “It’s yours now. Jimmy’s actually, but I’m giving it to you.” Paul looked suspiciously at Scott. Scott smiled back. It was a hard smile—more like a grimace. “Don’t worry—it’s on the up and up. But if you want to know, it’s from Dekker. Not a gift. More like reparation.” Paul shut the case. Scott reached out to put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Now Paul, I don’t want any lip about you not taking blood money... ” “I’m taking it,” the baker said. Scott stopped in mid-gesture and looked at Paul, surprised. “You are?”

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“Sure. I need it,” Paul said. “For Alyssa. I’m going away. Joining up.” Scott was stunned. “Are you that eager to get in the war?” Paul shrugged. “The way Hitler’s going, we’re gong to be in sooner or later.” He took the suitcase and slipped it under the counter. “This’ll help with the shop when I’m gone.” “You’re crazy to be joining up,” Scott said. “You got a wife and a kid to take care of.” “Yeah, I know. And that’s how I’m gonna take care of ‘em. By doing my part. What’s happening in Europe is going to spread all over the world and it’ll take every one of us to pitch in and stop what’s going on in this crazy world. Every one.” Scott looked down, troubled. “Sounds like something the Green Lantern would say... ” “That character’s a sap,” Paul declared. Scott looked up at Paul. “Says who?” “Says me,” Paul replied. “So he’s got these powers. So what does he do-go and round up a bunch of knuckleheads the cops can catch blindfolded.” “At least he’s doing something.” Paul waved Scott’s rational away. “He’s doing it for the press. He likes to see his name in the papers.” Scott worked to conceal his hurt. “You’re awfully hard on the guy. What have you got against him?” “I’ll tell you what I got against that guy: right now thousands of ordinary joes like me are leaving our home and families to go fight a war. Meanwhile, this Green Lantern jerk sticks around Gotham, foils some bank robbery and it’s splashed all over the front page.” Alan slouched against the counter. Paul’s words were hitting him hard. “Okay, you got a good point. But you’re a sap for joining up.

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Even if we do end up fighting Hitler, a guy your age could stay out of it—you could get a hardship deferment.” Paul shook his head. “You’re not getting it. I want to go. I have to go. I’m sick of men like Hitler and Dekker using their power over the little guy.” Alan grinned cynically. “You sound just like Jimmy. First of all, we’re not at war.” Paul shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious we will be soon.” “You think you’re gonna stop the Hitlers and the Dekkers of the world?” Alan said. “You’re a baker, for crissakes.” “You get enough little guys together, and they can stop anyone.” Paul stopped working and looked Scott in the face. “What about you? You thought about joining up?” Scott broke his gaze away from Paul. “I’ve got important work here in Gotham... ” “At the radio station? I think Tellum could spare you.” “No, there’s...other work. It’s complicated.” Paul winked at Scott and offered his flour-dusted hand across the counter. “A guy with your engineering skills would come in handy in this fight.” Scott took Paul’s hand and slowly shook it. “You would’ve made a good recruiter, Pauly. Or a carnival barker.” “So long, Alan.” Scott smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Paul.”

CHAPTER

10 S

cott walked into Irene’s office, just off the floor of the news­ room, expecting to see her clacking away at her typewriter. Once WXYZ’s receptionist, Irene had parlayed a shot at re­

writing wire copy to become a full-time reporter, complete with her own office, little more than the size of a closet, but with a window (overlooking an air shaft). Within a week of moving in she had crammed the office with newspapers, magazines, maps of the war and spools of wire copy. When she was not writing or reporting, she was reading-learning everything and anything she could about the conflict in Europe. Scott was mildly surprised to see John Tellum sitting with his legs up at Irene’s desk, reading copy. “’Morning boss,” Scott mumbled. After Paul’s ripping of his work as the Green Lantern, he wasn’t in the mood for Tellum’s jovial chatter. “More like afternoon, stranger,” Tellum replied. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it your day off?” 112

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“I need to talk to Irene.” “As do I. She’s been busting my chops about sending her over­ seas.” Scott slumped in the worn-out couch tucked in the back of the small office and lit up a cigarette. Tellum tossed Irene’s copy onto her desk. “Your girlfriend’s a hell of a good writer, Scott. It’s another Green Lantern piece. You want a gander?” Scott thought about Paul’s assessments of the Green Lantern’s feats. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he told Tellum. “Did you know that the police cite the Green Lantern as being responsible for a fifty percent drop in crime in the city?” Scott was unimpressed. “Yeah? Hoo-rah.” Tellum grinned good-naturedly at Scott’s cynicism. “That guy’s got guts. Still, I wonder why he doesn’t go overseas and clean up those Nazis?” Scott blew out a stream of cigarette smoke. “You wanna know what I think?” “Sure.” Scott leaned forward. “Maybe he can’t face going over and fighting alongside men who don’t have the luxury of super powers. Maybe he can’t take the idea of his surviving while watching men around him die.” “But he could clean up everything in a week.” “That’s what Napoleon thought when he went to Moscow,” Scott replied, his voice rising. “It’s what the French thought at Agincourt, the Carthaginians at Syracuse. It’s what Hitler thinks now. The dopes who start wars don’t do it ‘kind of hoping’ they can win. They’re

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always smugly certain of victory, sure that they got the ace-in-thehole, God on their side; that they’re the superior race or they’ve got a secret weapon or better strategy. Then power begets more power, cruelty justifies more cruelty and past savagery triggers new wholesale slaughter, and pretty soon you’ve got whole nations bent on using whatever force they can get their hands on to wipe each other out, each new assault rationalized under the banner of ending the war sooner.” Scott caught himself in mid-rant and shut up, silently cursing himself for blathering on. Tellum stared back at him as if he were deranged. “That’s the most I’ve heard you say since you started working here, Alan.” “I’m sorry John. I’ve been a little preoccupied.” “It’s not the job, is it?” “Ah, heck no. Giving me the job was the best thing you could have done for me, and I appreciate it.” “The way I see it, I got a great radio technician. And there’s no denying that you’ve had a rough time.” “Well, I appreciate i t ” Scott turned to Tellum. “Tell m e-w hat do you think of this Green Lantern character? “ Tellum shrugged. “He gets people listening to the radio news, that’s for sure. But with this war heating up, the people of Gotham have bigger fish to fry. If we do get dragged into fighting Hitler, a guy who uses those kind of powers to catch jewel thieves and muggers will sure look like a dilettante.” Scott was about to reply when Irene strode into the room, pushed Tellum so he was leaning forward in her chair, then draped her wool coat across the back of it.

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“Feet off the desk, John. I like to keep it clean.” Tellum quickly pulled his loafers off the desk. “Clean like your conscience, huh? Great series on the Green Lantern busting up that gambling ring, Irene—keep it up.” “Thanks boss. You know why I asked to see you, right?” Tellum shook his head. “Irene, I’m not sending you overseas. I need your eyes and ears on the home front.” “To do these fluff pieces about the Green Lantern?” “Let’s leave the war reporting to Ed Murrow. A war is no place for you.” “Cut the condescension, John. A war is no place for anyone, but it’s the best story around. And for the record: you’re not sending m e -I’m volunteering to go.” Uncomfortable, Tellum nodded to Scott. “How about we talk about this later-you’ve got company.” Irene noticed Scott’s presence in her office, which had become an increasingly rare occurrence of late. Irritated that Tellum was trying to dodge the issue once again, Irene eyed Scott warily. “So what are you doing here?” “I can’t make it tonight,” Scott mumbled. Irene rolled her eyes. “What’s your excuse this time?” “It’s a business deal.” “’Business deal?”’ Irene said, incredulous. Irene’s look told Tellum that he was better off elsewhere. He stood ceremoniously. “If you two lovebirds will excuse me, I have a communications empire to run.” Irene waited for Tellum to leave before unleashing her anger on Scott.

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“What business deal? All I see you doing is disappearing with that mug Doiby and the next day you look like hell.” “Look, I came by in person to tell you. That’s the best I can do.” “Alan, I know you’re having a rough time. No one expects you to forget what happened to Jimmy and the others. I want to help you.” She went to Scott, holding his face in her hands, searching his eyes. What she saw didn’t comfort her: his expression was blank. Frustrated, she turned her back to him and went to her desk. “Get out of here—you’ve done your duty. Consider your ticket punched.” Scott slunk out of the office. Irene continued writing, typing at her typewriter furiously. She waited until Scott was gone before she stopped, ripped the sheet of paper out and angrily crumpled it up.

Clutching a stack of newspapers, Scott unlocked the door of his apartment and stepped in. The apartment felt bare. Alan had stored or thrown out most of his engineering materials, leaving only a few pictures and maps up on his wall as mementoes. Otherwise, there was very little on display to reveal anything about Scott’s past, and nothing to reveal his current work as the Green Lantern. Almost nothing. Scott sat heavily on his sofa and pulled the top newspaper from the fresh stack on his lap and flipped it open. He searched through the paper, flipping rapidly through the pages as he scanned them. Then, with skill that came from much repetition, he took a razor blade from the coffee table and began to cut a clipping of an article from the paper, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he concentrated.

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When he was done, he stared at the clipping. The headline read:

“Green Lantern—Gotham’s Good Guy.”

Scott smirked humorlessly. “’Good guy.’ Damned by faint praise...” He reached for the large binder on his coffee table. Opening it, he flipped through page after page of carefully laid-out newspaper accounts of the Green Lantern’s various crime-fighting deeds: stopped muggers, foiled bank robbers, nabbed jewel thieves and broken-up burglary rings. Scott stared at the articles, some with pictures of him gloating next to sheepish, guilty-looking criminals. He looked up from the carefully maintained scrapbook to the fading picture gathering dust on his fireplace mantel—it was his crew. He took his razor blade and drew it across the most recent article, tearing it in two. Scott turned to what little mail he had. A hand-addressed letter stuck out from the bills and magazines. Using the razor, Scott slit open the envelope and pulled out the letter. Alan— Greetings from the bug-infested, malarial, blazing hot and humid jungles o f the Philippines. I was right about where I was going to be stationed. So much fo r me fighting the Nazis: I re-enlist and the Arm y sends me to this backwater to serve up vats o f black cojfee and Spam sandwiches. But I ’m still convinced that I ’ll end up fighting the Nazis. My company is made up o f career Army types that don’t take too

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kindly to a former buck-sergeant in their midst, but I don’t let that bother me none—I ’m good a company cook and I keep the men fed. The kids in my kitchen are good, hard workers ( I weeded out the goldbrickers) so I can’t complain about them. Sometimes I think that maybe you were right about my re-enlist­ ing. But I am glad to finally be part o f this thing, even in the smal­ lest o f ways. No cook in this Army is ever going to be decorated fo r scrambling eggs and peeling potatoes, but I take pride in what I do and I know I ’m needed. That’s really all a man can ask for, isn’t it? But they say it’s a soldier’s right to complain, and you know me: I ’m not shy about exercising my rights. Drop me a line some time and tell Irene hello. — Paul Scott re-read the letter. Paul’s hint at his location was code; Paul told Scott that he thought he’d be stationed at Corregidor, and he was right. Scott wondered how Paul could feel contentment as a cook when he, with all his power, felt so empty. The phone rang. Scott answered. “Alan-Doiby here,” the voice on the line said. “I got another case for the Lantern. Is he on the job?” “Yeah Doiby—he's on the job.” Scott looked at the ring on his finger—it was faintly glowing.

Green Lantern sat on a chair in the stock room of a darkened jewelry store, reading the Tribune. He leaned out to check one of the many clocks ticking on display in the dark showroom. The thieves were late. The owners of the jewelry store had left the heat running and the

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room was stifling hot, making Green Lantern uncomfortable. Since he’d first made it and put it on, the costume hadn’t fit quite right and seemed to stifle some of his abilities. But because the newspa­ pers documented him so well, changing his look would be difficult and he didn’t want to risk the public relations backlash. Doiby Dickies told him that the crooks be coming in at around 3 A.M. It was already 3:30. Dickies, a cabbie known for the beat-up brown derby atop his head, was Lantern’s eyes and ears on the street. More importantly, he was the only civilian who knew Alan Scott’s duel identity. The fashionable jewelry store was the kind of uptown boutique that did little to attract new customers; a dedicated clientele com­ prised of debutantes and bluebloods flocked to it, sitting in richly upholstered gold-leaf chairs, sipping tea as the fawning salesmen showed them an array of whatever baubles they craved. Green Lantern yawned, a little annoyed. If he caught the crooks by four A.M., it would be too late for the morning edition. The press had been losing some interest in the Lantern’s comings and goings-there were only so many jewel heists and bank robberies to write up before it all went stale. Besides that, there was a war going on. But according to Doiby, this caper would be a good one. Tucked away in the huge safe of the jewelry store was the Phoenix Star Diamond, brought in by a real estate mogul’s wife for insurance appraisal. Green Lantern mused that the woman and her husband probably hobnobbed with Dekker when he was alive. The thought of protecting bluebloods made him a bit queasy. But that’s where the fame is-now that crime is on the wane, the public

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is less interested in hearing about muggings being stopped. But save the precious jewels of some society dame and the press eats it up like popcorn. Besides that, too many times he’d stepped between a man and woman only to find that it’s a lover’s quarrel. And he knew for sure that he was no authority on that front. He wondered what he was doing with Irene. He considered telling her about his secret identity, but he was still getting used to the role. To top it off, the knowledge of what he was doing would put her at risk. Or maybe he didn’t trust her. Would she reveal his secret identity to the world for the scoop? She wasn’t very happy with him right now... Maybe Irene’s too good for him. He considered the possibility that Irene would be better off without him... Green Lantern yawned. The problem with stuff like this is the waiting because it gave him far too much time to think. It was too warm in here and he was getting sleepy. A click. “Finally,” he mumbled to himself, “now let’s get this show on the road.” Green Lantern frowned as only one thief slunk into the store. Doiby told him there’d be two. Maybe the other’s keeping watch. Using his power, the Green Lantern looked through the time pieces, the cabinet, the wall... ... to the street outside and across the road to an alley, where a thin man sat low in a red sedan. The man’s eyes steadily scanned the vacant street in a manner that belonged to criminals or cops. Satisfied, Green Lantern turned his attention to the man who had

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entered the shop. Once again using his powers, the Lantern examined the man’s bag. It confirmed his hunch that the thief had no weapons, but oddly, the thief didn’t bring even the most basic tools—just a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of Yoo-Hoo. With no tools, the thief wouldn’t be blowing the safe, or drilling. Was he a bonafide safe cracker? Green Lantern couldn’t believe it—those were rare nowadays. Curious, he waited to see how the crook was going to get into the vault. The crook was tall, skinny and clumsy, bumping into nearly everything near him as he hooded the beam of light from his flashlight and felt the walls for the door to the walk-in safe. Finding it to both his and Green Lantern’s silent relief, the thief pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and opened the heavy panel door to reveal the formidable interior steel door of the safe. Focusing the beam from his flashlight on the paper, the crook began dialing the combination. In a few moments he had the door opened. The Lantern waited for the thief to enter the enormous safe, then followed him in. The thief had gone straight to the velvet box housing the enormous Phoenix diamond and was admiring it, con­ firming that he had the right object. Green Lantern tapped him on the shoulder. The man jumped straight into the air. “Judas Priest!” he barked. Green Lantern was about the tell the thief about crime not paying when he heard a quiet click behind him. He turned to see that the wooden door to the walk-in safe had closed. The steel walk-in safe was encased in mahogany. A lump in his throat, the Green Lantern went to the door and tried opening it. His worst fear was confirmed:

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it was locked from the outside-he could see that the hinge had a mechanism that closed the door automatically. Green Lantern pounded on the mahogany door, muttering, “I can’t believe this. Doiby... ” It was the thief s turn to tap the Lantern on the shoulder, and the hero’s turn to jump in surprise. “What, we’re trapped?” Green Lantern turned and pounded on the door. “You could say that.” The thief knocked against the door. “This one’s just wood. Why don’t you bust it open?” “My powers aren’t terribly effective against wood.” “Why don’t you use your super-power X-ray vision to cut a hole in the door.” “Doesn’t work that way.” “That’s a hell of a thing.” The thief sat down and pulled off his cap and let out a breath. “Hoo-boy. It’s stuffy in here.” He bounced the huge diamond in his hand. “Wouldya get a load of this thing. It’s the size of a rutabaga!” Green Lantern snatched the diamond in mid-air. The thief sulked a little, then looked over the Lantern, who examined the heavy wooden door, looking for some way of opening it. Finally, Green Lantern gave up and sat on a chair next to the thief. “Aren’t you hot in that getup?” “I’m fine.” “Well, as long as we’re cooped up in here...” The thief extended his hand. “The name’s McGurk. Tommy McGurk. Pleased to meet ya."

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Reluctantly, Green Lantern shook McGurk’s hand. The thief eyeballed him a bit more. “So what’s with the outfit? You got something to hide?” The super hero ignored him, but McGurk was just getting started. “So what was it you were gonna say to me?” “That you were under arrest.” “Can you do that? Officially arrest people?” “Well, not really. But I can detain you and hand you over to the authorities.” ”1 gotcha. Does that really hold up in court? Detaining folks and all?” “You’d be surprised.” McGurk fell silent, to the Lantern’s relief. But it didn’t last long. “Hey—I heard you say this great thing once. I heard it on the radio. What was that?” “You mean my oath?” “That musta been it. Geez, it was moving.” The thief tapped his chest. “It got me right here, I tell ya. What was that?” “It’s an affirmation of my power and dedication to fighting crime.” “Would you mind saying it for me?” “It’s not something I do lightly.” “C’mon—just once. We’re gonna be here for a while.” “I’m not here to perform for you.” “Oh, so you’ll say it for the radio and the newsreels, but I’m not good enough?” “I don’t say it for the radio and newsreels! It’s an affirmation of my power!” McGurk stared at him expectantly.

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Finally, Green Lantern mumbled, “I shall shed my light over dark evil, for the dark things cannot stand the light, the light of... ” McGurk, remembering, joined the Green Lantern in finishing it “... the Green Lantern.” McGurk nodded in approval. “That’s really catchy.” “Thank you.” “I wish I had a saying. Some kinda nifty motto that sorta summed up my life mission. A... what’s the word... ” “Credo.” “Yeah—that’s the ticket. And I could have it on a calling card or something. I mean, I couldn’t say it out loud like you. What good would that do, seeing that I mainly work without spectators and witnesses and the like.” Green Lantern sighed. McGurk mulled it over. “Credo. Yeah... a card I could leave after a job with my credo on it. That would be aces. But to tell you the truth, I’m no damn good with them similes and such.” Green Lantern rolled his eyes. Then McGurk nudged him. “There’s another thing I always w ondered- why are you always going after us Westsiders? What’s that about? What’s with nabbing only us Westies? What do you got against us?” “That’s not true. I go after any evildoers." “Uh-huh—any evildoers between Thirty-Fourth and Fifty-Ninth Streets. I think them Eastsiders is paying you off. I’m thinkin’ they’re worried that us Westside boys are cutting into their action. See-those guys think with their fists.” “I don’t work for criminals. I just catch them.” McGurk nodded seriously. “That’s good rule. Real sage. But I gotta

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tell you somethin’... ” McGurk tapped the side of his head. “We’re loads smarter than those Eastside boys.” “Oh yeah? If you’re so smart what are you doing here?” “You wanna know the truth? I had to do it.” “That’s what they all say.” “No, really—I’m doing it as a favor.” “That’s a new one.” “Harry’s paying me.” “Who’s he?” “Harry Woodhouse. He owns this place.” “Robbing himself. Clever.” “He’s got a sick wife. Owes everyone in town.” “So he’s got to resort to crime?” “What crime?” McGurk reached over and tapped the diamond in Green Lantern’s hand. “The owners of this here rock are millionaires who have got the damn thing overinsured. That’s why it’s here-to get appraised. See? I do this job and the rich owners get richer col­ lecting more than the real value on the insurance. Then Harry and I hock the thing and Harry gets the missus the operation she needs. Who loses?” “The insurance company.” McGurk guffawed at this. “What, are you kidding? That’s hilarious, pal. They just raise their rates. But that’s something they woulda done anyway.” “Stealing is against the law,” the masked hero countered. McGurk smiled. “Begging your pardon Mister Lantern, but there’s the law and there’s justice. Even your average copper on the beat knows all about that.”

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Green Lantern crossed his arms. “I’m a crimefighter and it’s a crime to steal.” McGurk waved a finger at him. “And that’s another thing: who are you to decide what’s criminal? We got a whole system of justice, right? I don’t remember anything about guys in tights signing the Bill of Rights or the Constitution.” Green Lantern sighed. “I can tell this is gonna be a long night...” His weariness didn’t stop McGurk. “I mean, everyone else has gotta play by the rules, right? Other than that costume and your powers, what makes you so special?” “Nothing, I suppose. But the fact of the matter is that I do have these powers and have vowed to do good with them.” McGurk nodded. “Fine. Excellent. So why not use your ‘super­ powers’ to catch ‘super-criminals’ and leave us little guys alone?” Green Lantern said nothing. McGurk sensed victory close at hand and pressed home his advantage. “You outta be ashamed of yourself. If I had superpowers I wouldn’t be shaking down two-bit hustlers like me. I’d be protecting this city from the big fish.” Silence. The Lantern was happy to have it so he could sulk in peace. Then McGurk jabbed him again. “And another thing-about that costume... ” “Oh, for God’s sake... what about it?” “Did you get it made somewhere?” “I made it myself.” “Why?” “I couldn’t tell you. It just seemed like the thing to do.” “You couldn’t tell me? What kinda BS is that?”

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“Look, it was my destiny.” “Oooo: destiny. You mean like a higher calling? Isn’t that a bit elitist? Just because you got this power don’t make you special, does it? I mean, if I found a gun, I wouldn’t go around calling myself a cop and shooting people. That’s... ” "... vigilantism.” “Yeah. That.” “I’m restoring order. Righting wrongs.” McGurk slapped his knee. “Isn’t that what Hitler’s doing? Restoring order? And that bastard Mussolini? And how is stopping a guy from robbing a store for another guy so he can pay off a hospital bill restoring order?” Green Lantern went to the locked wooden door and pounded on it. McGurk watched him, bemused. Finally the Lantern gave up and McGurk walked up and patted the crime-fighter’s shoulder comfort­ ingly. “I know, pal, I know. Where’s a cop when you need one?”

The mangled toothpick in Detective Beasley’s mouth dangled for a moment as he yawned. He was looking scruffy: the shadow of a beard was emerging on his angled face and his hair was greasy from sweat and cigarette smoke. The weaiy cop was leaning heavily against the dewy wet black-and-chrome prowl car, which was parked facing the entrance to the luxurious jewelry store. Other squad cars had blocked off the avenue behind it and were also parked facing the store, their headlights illuminating the entrance. The dawn light was beginning to rise over the city, giving the scene a grim gray flatness.

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Beasley broke into a cynical grin as Green Lantern emerged from the jewelry store entrance. Behind the hero, two beat cops led McGurk out in handcuffs. McGurk gave Green Lantern a farewell nod. “So long, Green—don’t take any wooden nickels!” The Lantern just grunted. All he wanted was to head home. Although he was expecting the ribbing, the sight of Beasley’s snide smile annoyed him. “What the hell are you grinning about?” the super hero mumbled. “You find this funny?” “You’re right—I should be pissed. We gotta waste manpower to get you and this joker out of a safe, with everything else going on.” “Oh yeah—what else is going on?” “Didn’t you hear—the Japs bombed our bases in Hawaii and the Philippines. We’re at war. Oh yeah-you were ‘indisposed’ for the last twenty-four hours.” The smile slid off Beasley’s face as he flicked his chewed toothpick into the gutter and turned to climb back into his car.

The radio station was chaos—the alarm bells from the wire services were ringing merrily to announce yet another breaking story on the fledgling war that had just engulfed the country. Radio reporters practiced reading their copy, and newsmen not writing or editing stories huddled around the chattering teletype machines and radios, reading and listening for the latest update. Scott rushed through the pandemonium to Irene’s office. He found her at her typewriter furiously churning out copy, her fingers flying as the typewriter clacked away like a machine-gun.

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“Irene-w hat’s going on?” Scott asked. “It’s w ar-w e’re going to war,” Irene said, not looking up from her typewriter. “FDR just announced it.” “Do you think Green Lantern... ” “Look Alan—they’re saying we lost a lot of boys in Pearl Harbor. We don’t know what's going on in the Philippines. Hong Kong’s under siege. Do you think anyone’s going to give a hoot in hell about a guy in tights catching dumb-ass burglars?” Scott stood awkwardly, stung by the truth in Irene’s words. Then some of what she said sank in. “The Philippines? Paul’s there,” Scott said. Irene stopped typing and took a breath. She looked up to Scott and he saw her concern. “That’s right. Paul is there,” she said. Then she went back to her work.

Exhausted from his double-shift at the station, Scott walked through the door of his apartment, turned on his desktop radio and threw the late-edition paper on the coffee table, next to his scrapbook. Flopping on the couch, Scott opened the book and flipped through the articles about Green Lantern’s feats of capturing thieves and nefarious underworld figures. “The world’s changing,” Scott said to himself. “We’re not so innocent anymore.” His spoken words fell flat. Scott walked to the comer of the room and opened a small chest in the comer. Squatting down next to the chest, Scott pondered its contents: the Green Lantern ring and his neatly folded costume. As he lit a cigarette and contemplated these objects, the radio played

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a rebroadcast of FDR’s speech, the president’s solemn, angry, resolute voice booming through the static: There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger... With confidence in our armed forces-with the unbending determination of our people-we will gain the inevitable triumph-so help us God... ” Alan Scott closed his eyes.

CHAPTER

11 C

aptain Alan Scott opened his eyes to the bright sun. He thought hard as he came to consciousness, but it did not take him long to realize where he was. Flat on his back, as he

turned his head and looked about he could see dusty rocks and sun­ baked Sicilian countryside, and the incredibly blue Tyrrhenian Sea stretching to the horizon. By then Scott was completely aware of where he was and what he was trying to do. The soldiers in the recon patrol all had construction backgrounds and were part of the Army Engineering Corps. They were enthusi­ astic and good men but green, and their lack of knowledge for the nuances of combat cost lives. They were negotiating the crest of a ridge overlooking the high­ way to Messina, bypassing the German’s dummy positions and moving behind the German’s main line of defense to their rear. Their mission was to reconnoiter the bridges that Scott knew the Germans would be preparing to destroy once their delaying force made it across. The enemy was staging a textbook retreat, delaying

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the Americans just long enough along the narrow road clinging to the Sicilian hillsides. Scott’s engineering expertise was proving to be extremely valuable for this campaign. Every bridge destroyed by the Germans cost the Allies valuable time. Allied forces were pushing east towards Messina and encountering excellently executed, stubborn resistance. Captain Scott was called on to scout out the bridges ahead to determine their condition and if they could support the approaching armored columns. Because of the skill of their enemy and the extreme danger of the mission, Scott wanted to wait until his own men arrived, but the Major told him that the patrol could not wait another day—he needed to know ASAP what the tactical situation was beyond their lines. Scott’s own men had been given relief after a batch of particularly harrowing missions defusing booby-trapped bridges. The other engineering platoon was badly chewed up the day before when they were accidentally shelled by Allied artillery, and none of the other companies had men to spare. That left Scott with the major handicap of using the replacements. And since he knew that this mission was far too dangerous an assignment to be left to an inexperienced officer, Scott chose to lead them himself. Scott watched the six men moving on their bellies in the darkness of night, crawling past the machine gun emplacements and scant barbed wire that marked their own lines into no man’s land. As they got to their feet and moved across the moonlit field, Scott was somewhat relieved. The men were nervous but so far had handled themselves well, following Scott’s lead to the smallest detail-they tried to move like him, step where he stepped, look where he was

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looking. He had told them that doing so would be key to their sur­ vival, and they took this advice to heart. He had been unsure of how many men to take, but settled on six because of the sheer dis­ tance they needed to go behind enemy lines. Six would be much more difficult to move quickly and silently, but it gave them a better chance of survival if they had to fight their way out. Also, if they were separated, the chances of at least one getting back to report was better As they moved deeper into enemy territory, the patrol encountered delay after delay, much of it a result of pure bad luck: enemy machine gun fire erupted nearby. It was difficult to tell if it was meant for them, so they froze and lay still. Later, a flare went up and once again they lay prone, this time in a shallow culvert, waiting out the enemy parachute flare as its rocking motion threw dancing shadows everywhere, until it finally sputtered out. And they waited beyond that until their night-vision returned to them. Another time a Mark III tank rumbled nearby and the men fanned out in a grass field and waited for the twenty-ton machine to lumber into the distance. They finally made it to the village and bridge they were to observe. Once Scott mentally tallied the bridge's condition, the enemy’s numbers, disposition and location, he turned his team back toward their own lines. Feeling that the worst of it was over, Scott let the kid from Atlanta lead the squad back. Scott needed a breather from being on point for so long. Then they got lost. Getting disoriented behind enemy lines was truly Scott’s worst nightmare. Only one Allied observation post knew that his patrol

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would be coining back through the line. Now they were running late and they could not find the cut to make back towards this observation post. This left them the option of back-tracking to where they should have gone, effectively doubling their patrol time. Crossing anywhere else along their lines invited their getting shot or shelled by their own side. Worse yet, with them running late, the guards on the post might be relieved by men unaware that there was a recon patrol coming through. Scott knew that on these mis­ sions there’s only one way for it to go right and a thousand chances to screw it up, each occurrence leading to another like dominos clicking down towards disaster. Yet he could not betray his growing concern to the squad. And now Scott could see the first rays of the sun peeking over the horizon to the east, confirming that it would take too long to back-track around the ridge to the cut back through the lines. That left Scott with having to move the squad across exposed terrain in the dawn. From what Scott could tell, they needed to get over a sharp ridge in order to move back towards their lines, which meant being exposed on this ridge for a few minutes: a lifetime on the battlefield. But Scott knew he had no choice—the patrol would be as dead as vampires once the sun was up. In the rapidly growing dawn light, he gathered the men and spoke to them in a breathless whisper. “Look, to save time we’re going to have to move along this ridge. I want you to move quietly but quickly. Watch the man in front of you, and whatever you do, don’t stop.” The kid from Atlanta looked glum. Scott looked him in the eye and said, “Don’t worry—it happens to the best of us.”

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He kept it short because he did not want them to see his worry. With Scott back in the lead, they scrambled up to the exposed edge, trying to move as quickly as possible. They had crested it and were moving along its peak when Scott heard the ripping sound of the incoming German mortars. He yelled for them to get off the ridge but the men froze, uncertain of what to do or where to go. Scott threw himself off the crest and braced for the impact of the shells. He was alive by pure luck: most of his men were still on the crest of the ridge when the rounds hit in quick succession, but Scott was already on the opposite side and most of the shrapnel passed harmlessly over him. The blast did knock him to the ground, and some of the bodies of his five squad mates had slid down off the crest. Scott lay still. He was not sure if he could be seen by the German spotters so he did not move for fear of the them dropping another mortar round on him, or of being shot by a sniper. Assuming the enemy was observing him through binoculars and rifle scopes, Scott did not even twitch. A fresh corpse tumbled down the ridge and landed next to Scott, giving him some concealment. It was the body of the young, highlymotivated corporal from Atlanta. Scott hadn’t bothered to learn the likable replacement’s name, which was just as well: lying in the soldier’s blood, Scott knew the poor bastard’s name no longer mattered to anyone except the relatives back home. As he lay still on the ridge next to the dead boy, memories of the train crash welled up in Scott’s mind: the similarities of the experi­

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ence were freakishly similar and Scott wondered what fate was in store for him to have this happen to him twice in his life.

Scott heard boots crunching slowly up the slope, and low muttering: the Germans were coming up the ridge from the opposite side. They were being cautious, but Scott had to assume that his squad was incapable of putting up a fight. He had no other option but to play dead and wait out the Germans’ approach. Then he heard one of his squad mates moaning. It sounded like Private Damon, the Texan. From what Scott could tell from the direction of his moans, Damon was still on the ridge. Maybe he heard the Germans as well, but in his inexperience mistook them for friendly soldiers. It was the last mistake he’d ever make. A gunshot stopped the moaning. Scott noted that the Germans, still skittish, had shot Damon from distance. They did not know what lay on the opposite side of the ridge and were wary of being ambushed. Scott wished he could do something, but firing on a alert German squad armed with machine pistols would be suicide. He could hear them continuing to speak in whispers. From the little German he knew, they were planning on lobbing a few grenades over the ridge, just to be sure. Scott knew he had to do something fast. He rolled over and let his body slide away down the ridge, towards a shallow culvert running parallel to the ridge. He could see a field of waist-high weeds a few yards beyond the culvert, and he got to his hands and knees and crawled towards the concealment. It felt to Scott like he was moving very slowly and that he was making a tremendous amount of commotion. He had the awful

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feeling of his hindquarters being exposed to the German patrol: if they crested the ridge they’d see him crawling away, his ass a perfect target for them to take pot shots at. As he crawled he heard the sounds of objects thumping into the dirt behind him—the German grenades. Scrambling on all fours, he threw his body into the culvert, knocking the wind out of him. Then the three grenades exploded in quick succession behind him. The culvert saved him from getting hit, and Scott wasted no time rolling out of it and into the weeds. He could hear the Germans talking openly now, their voices louder-they sounded as if they were on the ridge crest, confident that they’d suppressed any potential ambush. He even heard laughter and the easy relaxed chatter of survivors reliving the details of their action. He lay still in the thick weeds, waiting for his heartbeat and breathing to slow, trying to push the panic back down to his gut. When he felt relatively calm, he slowly began crawling deeper into the field and away from the German patrol and his dead squadmates. But as he made his way through the weeds he remembered his pack and what was in it. It was still on the ridge. He could not leave that pack behind. He’d have to go back for it. Without hesitation he turned around and moved back towards the ridge.

Once again at the culvert, Scott peered from the weeds. He was in luck: he could see his haversack near the crater of one of the mortar blasts, singed by shrapnel but otherwise intact.

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The German patrol was still on the ridge, searching the bodies there, and hadn’t made their way down towards Scott’s side. Scott knew he’d have to risk it. He could not wait for them to find the haversack and its contents. The moment the Germans had their backs turned, he quickly crawled across the culvert and into the open, towards the haversack. Once again, under the eyes and ears of the enemy, the few yards felt like miles to cross. Finally he got to the pack and quickly checked its contents. Then Scott backed away, slowly moving towards the concealment of the weeds. He was almost to the culvert when he heard the shots and the felt the bullets ricocheting off the ground near his cheek, a fragment of stone hitting him, drawing blood. Stupidly, he lay still and tried to fake his death, but by now the Germans were going to make sure. More rounds tore up the ground around him. Instinct took hold and he leapt to his feet and ran across the culvert and into the weeds. The German squad was pouring gunfire down on Scott. He could do nothing but run. Fifty yards ahead of him, the field met an olive grove. The grove offered some concealment but, more importantly, the old gnarled trees gave him cover against the bullets. Scott charged forward, the pack swinging in his hand. The snap of German bullets flying by him made him feel helpless and amazed that he hadn’t been hit yet. Then he slipped over an unseen rock and tumbled into the weeds. This was the best break he’d had all day: the Germans had him zeroed in but lost sight of him when he fell into the thick grass. Scott lay there for a minute, then crawled to his left, hoping to

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lose the Germans. He moved very slowly, trying not to rustle the grass and give away his position. He had some hope he would make it to the treeline when he heard the crackle of incoming mortar shells lobbing through the air in his direction. The mortar rounds started dropping around him, tearing up the field in rapid explosions. Scott felt the slap of the concussion and heard the whizzing of deadly shrapnel whipping by him, ripping at the grass. He was extremely aware that the grass offered good concealment but no protection from the scything metal. He found a slight depression and pressed himself down into it as more rounds approached and slammed into the ground around him. The Germans were playing the odds that artillery would do what they could not guarantee with their rifles, and Scott was sure they bet right. The explosions stopped and Scott checked himself, amazed to find that he was still relatively uninjured. In the lull he clambered to his feet again, making his way towards the olive grove in a des­ perate, stumbling run. He would rather take his chances against their snipers than endure another barrage. He could hear shouts behind him -the German soldiers were equally amazed to discover he was still alive. It took them a moment to bring their rifles to bear, and once again Scott heard the crack of rifle fire and felt the slugs ripping by him. One bullet caught the pack, the force of it spinning Scott around and ripping the pack from his hand. Scott turned to find it, but it was lost in the grass: there was no way he was going to be able to find it with these men intent on killing him. Strength spent, legs rubbery, spirit broken, Scott turned to face

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the German soldiers on the ridge. There were four men—one was watching him through large binoculars. This would be the officer in charge. He could see that he was giving the others a command. The other three men were standing, aiming their Mausers at him like executioners in a firing squad. Scott stared back, awaiting the bullets to be fired, ready for his own death, braced for the impact and pain. He had been preparing for this since landing in Casablanca. In Tunisia he had expected it as well. But before the three men could fire, one fell back, one staggered, and the other crumpled. The German officer lowered his binoculars to look at his men and before he could react his head exploded in a mist of red blood, white bone and gray brain tissue. Scott took this in, confused. Then he turned to see the American soldiers at the tree line of the olive grove, grimly surveying the death they had just brought on the Germans, giving Scott a wave. Scott, delighted at their deadly accomplishment, returned the gesture. Limping towards them, he recognized them as a scout team from Baker Company. “What the hell are you boys doing out this far?” Scott called out. “We were sent to bring your team back, sir. The Major needs your report.” Scott saw that the scout team had casualties from the mortar barrage. More lives spent at his expense. He turned to the young sergeant. “Thanks.” “We saw you make it to the grass, but then you turned back. What happened?” the sergeant asked. “I had to get this.” Scott held up the dusty pack. As he did so a

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weathered, cracked photograph fell out. The soldier picked it up, wiped the Sicilian dust from it and handed it back to Scott. He grinned as he did so. “Seems like it was worth getting, sir.” Scott smiled, embarrassed, and tucked the portrait of Irene (her correspondent’s publicity photo) back in his back, next to the care­ fully wrapped green lantern.

The scouts led Scott back to their lines and safely past the check­ point. Back in the bivouac, the scout team fell out to their tents, leaving Scott alone with the team leader. The young, battle-hardened sergeant snapped Scott a farewell salute. Scott instead reached out and shook the young man’s hand. “I’m sorry you took casualties coming out to get me, Sergeant,” Scott said. “You showed a lot of guts out there, sir. I’m sorry about the rest of your squad.” Scott didn’t know what to say. All he could come up with was, “Well, it’s what we do, isn’t it?” That pretty much ended the conver­ sation. He turned to walk to the commanding officer’s tent to submit his report. He blushed at the real reason for his squirrelly behavior—retrieving the lantern. The once-powerful object was now an albatross around his neck. He forced himself to carry it wherever he went. Even though it was completely dormant, carrying an object that powerful into battle bordered on insanity, but the power of the lantern was such that he could not part from it. But Scott also suspected that he was testing himself: even if he

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could have used its power, he told himself that would always choose not to, no matter the cost. This made his actions as Alan Scott more worthwhile. At least, this is what he told himself. As for his actions, Scott was not so much courageous as much as unafraid of dying. He feared pain, disfigurement, paralysis-all of those horrors, but the thought of his ceasing to exist did not matter to him, and in some ways brought him comfort. He would do his duty and try to do his best. What was unusual was that most of those who thought like him were young men, not having gathered enough in experience, love and property to make life valuable to them. They wanted to live, but right now the war consumed them, but Scott’s reason for his behavior was different. He was paying the price for his life choices and he considered the opportunity both a bargain and blessing. He could lose himself in the war and find some redemption or peace in what he did. Or he would find it in death. Either way was fine by him. That made him very valuable to the Army. He always drew the toughest engineering missions, the problems without immediate solutions, and the senior staff knew that he’d come up with some­ thing and they did not have to worry about a lack of intelligence or effort. His role as a combat engineer was critical to winning battles. The Army had a habit of taking the best and removing them from doing what they did in order to train or lead. But the best knew that what Scott did could not be passed to others, so they kept him doing what he did and gave him tremendous latitude, allowing him to pick his own men and equipment.

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So the war went for him. And above all, in his heart he was determined that everything he did were the accomplishments of Alan Scott and not those of Green Lantern.

CHAPTER

12 W

hen he stepped through the Stargate, Malvolio could feel the weight of centuries dropping from him. His shackles off, he could sense the power scattered across this planet.

He emerged through the portal of energy into a beautiful room filled with fine heavy furniture of polished oak and mahogany, with shiny brass fittings. It was clearly a rich man’s house. With his muscular physique, long flowing hair so black that it shone blue, and his leather belt and boots, Malvolio was not only too large to comfortably fit in this room, he was also an anachron­ ism: even he could tell that as he stood before the delicately framed mirror. Everything about his appearance was out of place with the genteel surroundings. Malvolio turned at the sound of a knock on the door, then a man stepped into the room. “Bella?” The man jumped, startled and blanching at the sight of this hulking person in his bedroom, the blinding light of the Stargate’s

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energy behind him like a huge halo. The crystal glass of brandy he was holding slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. The man brought up a hand to shield his eyes. “What the—who the devil are you? What are you doing in my house?” Malvolio strode towards the man. He wore a silk robe and his hands were long and delicate, the nails manicured. Malvolio stood before him. “This is your home?” “Yes it is. What do you want?” “How could someone as... weak as you command such a magni­ ficent home?” “Who are you?” Malvolio stood before the man, sizing him up. The owner of the house was in fact quite strong, from countless tennis and squash matches and many, many laps in an Olympic pool; but the strength was artificial: manufactured on courts and in gymnasiums. Mal­ volio’s was borne of dominance, survival and battles fought without mercy. His was the strength of a killer: fed and hardened by each foe that fell from a stroke or thrust of his blade. Malvolio grabbed the man’s hands and held them in his huge, rock-hard paws, examining them. The man, afraid, tried futilely to pull away, but Malvolio didn’t even notice. “For you to own such precious things, your strength must lie elsewhere.” The man spotted the glowing green ring on Malvolio’s finger. “You’re the Green Lantern!” “The Green Lantern?” Malvolio looked up at the man. “Is there something going on? Burglars?”

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“Burglars?” “Where are the bad guys?” “Bad guys?” Malvolio’s expression twisted into a dark grin. “Is the Green Lantern... good?” The man looked at him, confused. “Of course—every one knows that the Green Lantern uses his power for good.” “That’s reassuring that I have such power. I’m delighted to hear it" The man was even more confused. “You are the Green Lantern, right?” “I’m a Green Lantern. But as far as this world’s concerned, I’ll soon be the Green Lantern.” Malvolio gripped the man more tightly. The man saw into the darkness of Malvolio’s eyes and his confusion became terror.

CHAPTER

13 T

he plan is simple: there’s going to be an amphibious operation to land men here and here.” Major Jenkins pointed to spots on the large acetate map

spread across the farmhouse table. The story of the campaign was told on this huge, detailed map that showed the geographic terrain, swirls of elevation lines looking like fingerprints, cross-hatchings representing swamps, the entire acetate-covered map drawn on with grease penciled lines of enemy positions and troop movements, the arrows more eloquent and telling to Scott than any correspondent’s or war historian’s accounts. Scott saw that it showed two beaches on the north coast of Sicily. Scott could see the positions of his unit and every other allied force trying to take the island: they were on the north coast of the island, moving to the east as rapidly as possible, squeezing the retreating enemy forces as they made their way to the port of Messina on the northeast tip of the island. The green lines showed Montgomery’s corps was driving from

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the southern coast up the east side of the island to cut off the retreating Germans and Italian, but the lines stopped in the cross­ hatching of Sicilian swamp, telling Scott that the Tommies were meeting stubborn enemy resistance and complicated terrain. Jenkins continued as Scott scanned the map, drawing his attention to the road running along the north coast of the island. “We’re going to need the bridges on that north road to be open to meet up with the invasion force coming ashore. If we can’t get to them they’ll be stranded, and either cut to pieces or pushed back into the sea. That’s why we had you scouting out that area.” Scott could see what Jenkins was leading to: a small town on the northern coast between the current front lines and the beach where the allies would be landing. This was the town he and his team had reconnoitered. He remembered that the entrance to that town was over a small stone bridge covering a deep ravine, and it would have to be held if the armor on the coast road was going to meet up with the men on that beach. The Germans would have it wired for explosives, of course. But they would need to wait until the last possible moment before they blew the bridge; until their delaying force was across. The Germans were fighting tenaciously to buy their comrades time to get off the island. For them, blowing the bridge too soon would trap people on the other side, and too late would risk the allies taking the bridge and powering that much faster to Messina. Scott also knew the German delaying forces were excellent. Too often he’d get to a bridge minutes after it had been destroyed, and he could see the Germans hot-footing it east on whatever vehicles

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they had. It was infuriating. Worse yet, they’d leave a mortar or 88 team behind to drop harassing artillery on the Allied forces trying to get forward of the bridge. Jenkins drove the point home. “We’ll need this bridge to get the armor across to relieve those boys on the beaches.” Scott, deep in thought, exhaled heavily. “We haven’t had a lot of luck with that so far. They seem to know when we’re coming.” “Don’t I know it.” Jenkins thought he was making a joke but it came out too real to be funny. Scott thought a bit more. “And now that we tipped them off, it’ll be that much worse. And we still don’t know the locations of the demo charges on that bridge.” “Okay, you got any good news?” “No sir, I don’t.” The major sat down heavily and ran his hands through his hair, then reached for a long-cold cup of coffee and drank it, grimacing at the bitter taste. He looked up at Scott. “They’re moving the landing up to 0600,” the major said. “That could be good,” Scott offered. “It won’t give them time to reinforce the town.” Jenkins stared at the map. “Hell, maybe they’ll pull back and give us the goddam town.” Scott shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on it. And they’d still blow the bridge.” The two men sat staring at the map before them, searching it for some possible solution. The major had his eyes closed for so long that Scott thought he may have fallen asleep. But then Jenkins reached up and rubbed

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his temples. Jenkins was working the problem in his head, just like Scott. They needed that bridge and everything they’d come up with was either impossible or required resources they didn’t have. Capturing the bridge intact was another in a long series of tactical problems that Scott and Jenkins had been dealing with since Tunisia. It was only weeks, but it felt like years. Jenkins was West Point all the way, but he was the kind of officer that remembered the names and home towns of his men, and struggled with the guilt of sending them to their deaths. To counter this guilt he often tried to share the danger, going on recon missions with Scott that a wiser or more discretionary commander would have avoided. Jenkins was that rare breed of officer that was gifted enough to lead with a combination of savvy, compassion and per­ sonal courage. Jenkins finally looked up from his cold cup of coffee. “Pick your best men and leave tonight. Be ready at the bridge and we’ll get to you as soon as we can.” It was what Scott expected him to say.

Back in his tent, Scott went through his haversack and dug out the item he risked his life to get. It was wrapped in a shirt, the second most precious item in the bag. Unwrapping it, Scott held up the lantern. It was inanimate, without the glow he had experienced before. The day of Pearl Har­ bor, he’d put it away when he heard the news about Paul and hadn’t used it since. He knew he could not bring himself to use it in battle, to have this protection when other men risked everything. He was determined to face the same danger as his men.

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But this mission was different: it was close to suicidal, and his failing the objective would spell doom for hundreds and perhaps thousands of Allied soldiers. Scott rolled the ring between his fingers. Using the power of the green lantern, he could go alone and spare the lives of his men. He decided he would try.

CHAPTER

14 A

s he walked through the candlelit townhouse, brooding, Malvolio could feel anger building within. He’d been feeling this for days now: the search for the Sleeper Rings was

proving fruitless and his energy was waning from wasted effort; time was running out. The Guardians must have hidden the rings more effectively than he’d thought and he swore to himself that it would be the last time he’d underestimate them. Even though it was bright and sunny outside, the interior of the townhouse was as dark as a cave: the windows had been sealed and painted shut. Malvolio could not stand the glare of modem electric lights, so he replaced them with the familiar soothing softness of candles. The house was now his sanctuary, and within its center was the Stargate. He sat in the library-his “host” was indeed wealthy to have so many folios-and contemplated his next move. Up to now he’d been staying clear of the other Green Lantern as he searched for the rings, but with his power running out, he realized he would be forced to a confrontation. Winning over the other Green Lantern with dip-

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lomacy or force would give Malvolio the additional power needed to complete his quest. There was one problem: since he’d arrived back on Earth, he could feel his kinsman’s powers, but surprisingly to Malvolio, the power was timidly used, and never at levels that he’d expected. It was perplexing—like witnessing a man using a battleaxe to whittle a twig. And in the past few weeks the power ceased to be used at all. Malvolio suspected that it had to do with the news that had con­ sumed Gotham. As Malvolio walked the streets of this fantastic city of his future, cloaked in his host’s fine coats, he could hear the population abuzz over a “world war.” But Malvolio had paid it little mind: compared to the scale of his quest and its outcome, any human endeavors would be rendered meaningless. In his mind it was decided: he would immediately track down and find this other Green Lantern and, one way or another, convince him to join his quest for the Sleeper rings. Since the other Green Lantern’s power wasn’t currently being invoked, Malvolio would have to follow the energy traces of his presence. Once found, Mal­ volio would harness his brother’s power, either with his cooperation or by destroying him. Given the indications so far of his capabilities, Malvolio did not view this as anything but a minor task.

Green Lantern’s energy signature shone like a beacon to Malvolio. He found it easy to follow the energy trail back to its point of origin. Malvolio opened the door to Alan Scott’s apartment. Finally he had found Scott’s living quarters, and not a moment too soon. With

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much of his energy depleted, Malvolio was getting increasingly desperate to tap into the other Green Lantern’s supply of power. As he walked through the empty apartment he was struck by the modesty of it, the tidy possessions of a man alone in life. Malvolio identified deeply with this, and felt kinship with Alan Scott as he touched his books, his pictures, the maps hanging crookedly from the brick wall. Malvolio spoke to Scott through Scott’s possessions. “Who are you? And more importantly-where are you?” Malvolio kneeled down next to a sturdy antique trunk. He sensed great power coming from it. His fingers trembling in anticipation, he slowly opened it. An outfit lay carefully folded inside-the green costume of the Green Lantern. Malvolio held it up, admiring, it, nodding in approval. “Very nice.” There was nothing else in the trunk. Frustrated, Malvolio threw the costume over the trunk lid, then walked to the bookshelf. He spied an especially worn book, pulled it off the shelf and opened it. It was Scott’s large scrapbook—Malvolio studied the various clippings of news articles documenting the Green Lantern’s feats: nabbing bank robbers, thieves, muggers and low-level crime syndicate types. Malvolio smirked at the news accounts. “What you lack in quality you make up in quantity, my friend. But assaulting highwaymen and rogues is no work for a Green Lantern.” Malvolio placed the scrapbook back and went to Scott’s desk. Everything on it (and everything in the apartment) had been put away as if Scott were on a long journey. However, there was one letter in an opened envelope still on the desk. Malvolio picked it up and read it. It was from the United States Government, the U.S. Army, con­ firming Captain Alan Wellington Scott’s new unit assignment. Malvolio read this and smiled.

CHAPTER

15 S

cott grinned when he saw the deuce-and-a-half truck pulling up to the ramshackle collection of tents along the one-lane highway. The men aboard shot back grins and saluted lacon­

ically to their commanding officer. Scott returned it and unhinged the back gate of the truck. “Took you ladies long enough to get here.” “Sorry sir—the lovely locals didn’t want us to give up our posi­ tions.” These men had been with him in North Africa and Scott knew them to be trustworthy under fire. Scott led them to the field kitchen for a hot meal and began briefing them on the mission. Present were Mazis, the Greek who was cocky but dependable, Kalk, the mountaineer, sardonic and lazy but otherwise excellent under fire, Patterson, who loved the ladies, and Rankin, who no one liked but was the best with demolition and knew his stuff, but otherwise was selfish and mean. Rankin had the bad habit of blaming people after the fact for action that had occurred during combat and many fights

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broke out over his accusations. But he was the best Scott had seen around explosives-carefully efficient and amazingly fast-every charge he set never failed to detonate, and his hands were rock steady at defusing mines and booby traps. This left Pizzo, the small, quiet and deadly one whose distant family came from this island. As they sat in the dusty clearing, eating their chow from metal mess kits, some smoking and sipping hot coffee, Scott told them the situation. They looked grim at the news and the odds they were up against, but they didn’t expect what he told them next. “I’ll be heading out on this one alone.” It was Pizzo who spoke up first. “You got a secret weapon?” Scott smiled. “Maybe. I just don’t think it’s going to be good for a squad of us to be out there. They’ll have reinforced the bridge by now. It’ll be best if I watch the bridge and snipe anyone coming to blow it. I can call in artillery.” “What if the artillery you call in knocks out the bridge?” Mazis asked. “Those Germans won’t be near the bridge-they’ll be on the damn thing.” “Let me worry about that,” Scott replied. Mazis shrugged and said disbelievingly, “Yes, sir.” Kalk and Patterson exchanged questioning looks about Scott being battle-wacky. Pizzo as usual said nothing at all and spat a stream of dark tobacco juice into the dust between his feet. No one said anything for a long while. They had had a rough time since they landed, losing buddies to snipers, accidents, artillery, the replacements killed on the last patrol. They knew Scott was proposing suicide for himself but they couldn’t bring themselves to join him in what was surely a deadly mission.

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Nor did Scott expect them to. These were smart men whom he had brought together for their intelligence and instinct. Like his construction crew, they were strong and smart and they wanted to survive. Heroes would be effective up until they got themselves killed. He needed men who planned on staying alive—brave men who had common sense. Of course he could have told them about his hope for the ring saving him, but it would have given them the perfect opportunity to report him with a textbook case of combat fatigue. It would have been like the lieutenant who suddenly swore that he could make himself invisible by wearing his father’s knit cap under his helmet. The cap had been soaked by special waters that run near his ancestral home, he told them, and these waters were known for vitality, protection and magic. They enjoyed his little joke until he stood on a ridgeline overlooking a valley in Sidri and a German sniper’s bullet went through his helmet, magic hat and skull. Kalk said later that it could have been a lucky, random shot by the sniper and maybe the lieutenant really was invisible. Mazis, unaware of the irony, argued that he could see the damn fool the entire time. And Scott ended the conversation saying that leadership by witchcraft was probably not the most effective defensive tactics to use in this shootin’ match. The men murmured in agreement and went back to cleaning their weapons. So to tell them now that he had a magic ring that could channel his will to make the impossible possible would lead them to never trust his judgment again. But after this mission that might not be

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an issue. Either the ring would save him or he would be the latest casualty, along with the men landing on that beach. Scott had decided to parallel the route of his first recon to the bridge, then climb the ridge overlooking the town and set up to keep watch at daybreak. He needed to leave later tonight so he bade his men goodnight. They watched him step away from the fire burning in the sliced oil drum, some with sadness, others shaking their heads. He left them without saying another word and went to prep. He would leave his Thompson submachine gun behind and would instead take the Ml rifle. He’d likely be sniping at the Germans, so the close-in Thompson would do him little good. He had the Zeiss German binoculars he’d taken from a captured tank commander in Tunis. He also packed spare ammunition, grenades, the handytalkie PRC-11 field radio. If he stayed on the ridge he’d get an additional mile out of the five-mile range it normally had, but he worried that the batteries would not last, so he brought spares. He packed his demolition tools. Then he checked on the ring and, for the first time since the war began, he put it on his finger. His hands trembling, Scott pawed through his musette bag and pulled out the carefully-wrapped lan­ tern. Quickly, he touched the dormant ring to the lantern, waiting for the comforting glow of green light as the lantern recharged the ring. Nothing. Scott could not understand this. He tried it again but the ring remained dark. Scott’s heart began to race as he remembered the words of the

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lantern: “Power shall be yours if you have faith in yourself. Lose that faith and you lose the energetic power of the green lantern, for will power is the flame of the green lantern!” Scott knew that he could not wish the ring to work—he needed to believe in its powers and most important in his ability to use it. The death of the men on the patrol and the men of the squad that had rescued him had shaken Alan’s faith. He needed a catalyst to believe once again in himself, but he did not know what that catalyst would be.

The trek to the ridge in the darkness was tricky. Scott took his time, marking his progress by looking for strips of tape his squad had left behind on the first patrol. Once he’d climbed the ridge overlooking the town, he scanned the area with his binoculars, being careful to shield the lenses by cupping his hands over them so that not even moonlight would reflect and give his position away. He kept his back to the Caronie mountains, sharp and steeply dropping into the Tyrrhenian Sea. Scott could feel the ominous black form of Mount Etna looming over the mountains, a massive, silent witness to the battles below. The town was composed of a dozen buildings made from rough Sicilian stone with rooftops of dusty tile shingles. The buildings lined a road clinging to the steep mountainside that led to a cliffside drop into the sea. By the look of it, the village had been unchanged for centuries, having undoubtedly seen many visitors, both welcome and unwelcome. Highway 113, the dusty one-lane coast road, ran directly through the village, and the approach from inland was steep and impassable

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by even tracked vehicles. A sharp ravine cut into the terrain from the sea, and a small bridge crossed the ravine before the road leading just seventy-five yards into the town. The bridge, as everything else in Sicily, was made of stone and had also been standing for centuries. The Germans set up an emplacement at the town-end of the bridge with rocks and sandbags, and Scott could see an MG-34 machine-gun in place, and two men behind it. They appeared to be on guard and expecting an attack. The shape of their helmets was discouraging to Scott. Unlike the standard German helmets, the machine gun crew had the bowl­ shaped helmets of German paratroopers. Scott knew from his time in North Africa that they were an elite, known to be fearless and smart in their tactics. They would not relinquish the bridge easily. Scott dropped behind the ridge and slowly and methodically removed the handy-talky from his haversack, being careful not to expose the antenna over the ridgeline. Although it was night, he’d learned too many times that one act of carelessness got men killed and battles lost. Once he was sure his gear was in working order and he’d memor­ ized their place in the darkness on the ridge beside him, he settled in for some rest. He was too keyed up to sleep, so he lay on his back and stared at the stars, tracking Orion, and the north star, and the dippers. Scott examined the ring on his finger. It was still cold to the touch. His head was resting on his field bag, the lantern tucked safely in it. He’d repeatedly touched the ring to the lantern and although it was less than twenty-four hours between charges, the ring still showed no signs of power.

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How did he expect it to come to life? He tried talking to it, just as he had done with the lantern. “C’mon, ring. Do something. If there’s ever a time, this would be it. I can’t do this by myself. I need... something. Otherwise, I’m just me and that ain’t good enough. Not for this.” But Scott’s one-way conversation with the ring was cut short when he heard the clink of metal behind him. Someone was coming up the ridge. Scott froze in the darkness, listening for the sound of metal, the slosh of water in a soldier’s canteen, anything that would give away the position of whoever was coming up the ridge. He instinctively, slowly lowered his hand to the rifle next to him. Realizing firing it would give away his position, he instead reached for the knife in his boot: a ranger knife he’d gotten in a trade. Scott had sharpened it constantly, nervously, as a kind of physical mantra to help him clear his mind. Now he was thankful for this compulsion: the blade was razor-edged. The knife now in his hand, he slipped behind a boulder next to him, backing away, never turning his back the sound below. Then Scott heard a pair of boots shuffling in the dirt. It was only one pair, so he figured he’d have a chance if he could surprise the intruder. It must have been a sentry posted here after the earlier probe. Scott knew that they worked in twos, but perhaps they were short of men, or he had separated from his buddy in the darkness. He’d have to kill him before the other guard showed up. Scott put his free hand against the boulder to steady himself. In his mind he ran through what he was about to do. If he could he’d grab the man from behind, and with his free hand pull the man’s

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chin up and then jam the knife in the man’s throat. The chin pulled back and the knife in the throat would prevent him from being able to yell out. If he had to attack the sentry from the front, he’d throw himself against the man and run the knife between the ribs into the heart, his free hand over the man’s mouth. Either way there’d be a tremendous amount of blood, and Scott would be covered in it. There were many ways to kill a man, but he hated this one more than any of the others. He’d shot a few, and thrown grenades, and once he’d practically decapitated a soldier in Tunisia by hitting him in the neck with the sharp blade of an entrenching tool, but the worst was the honest, intimate dance of holding onto a man as he was killing him. The knife trembled in Scott’s hand, and he was afraid of hesitating. Scott moved his free hand up the face of the boulder, ready to lunge. As he did so, he could see his knife bathed in an eerie green light. The ring on his free hand was glowing. Scott’s heart leapt as he could hear the steady boots scuffle as if running. Scott came around the boulder and saw the outline of the man in front of him. The man was swinging a weapon towards him. Scott had less than a second to close the space between him and the man before he could get his weapon trained on Scott. Oddly, the man did not yell out. Scott slammed into the man, knocking both of them backward down the slope. They hit the ground in a dusty thud, and Scott clawed at the man’s throat, trying to choke him before he could cry out. But the man was too fast, his hand grabbing at Scott’s wrist.

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Scott used this to thrust his knife forward, but the tip caught something metal and the knife deflected upwards. Scott could hear the grunting of the man, and a green glow came from his hand as the man pulled it away from his throat. The light was strong now, powered by Scott’s focus and intent on the task of killing. It lit up his victim’s face and Scott could see that it was Pizzo. Both men froze as they recognized each other. “Pizzo? What the hell?” Scott rolled off the corporal, who was still gagging from Scott’s grip on his throat. Scott’s heart pounded in his ears and he looked at the man he had been moments away from killing. One of his own. “What are you doing here?” “Looking for you, sir. We’re all down the ridge.” “We?” “Mazis, Kalk, me. We figured we couldn’t leave you out here alone. We also got four replacements.” “On whose order?” “No one sir—we volunteered.” “What did I tell you about volunteering?” “I don’t listen so hot. But if you want us off the ridge... ” Scott looked at the glowing ring on his finger—the light had almost completely faded. He sighed. “No, I’m gonna need you now. What else did you bring?” “A mortar. That’s it.” “Good.” Pizzo searched his pocket and pulled a dented and pierced can

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of chewing tobacco from his breast pocket. “Glad I’m not a smoking man.” He opened up the dented case and pulled out a pinch of chew and crammed it in his cheek. Scott fell backward. The green light faded from his ring as he was overcome by the disaster that had almost happened. Pizzo watched him. “You all right?” “Yeah. I guess. I don’t think anyone heard us.” “I better shag ass down to the others and tell them to get up here.” Pizzo slowly got up and dusted himself off. Limping, he started making his way down the ridge to the men waiting below. Scott waited for Pizzo to leave before looking at his ring. The power that was so easy to him before was elusive. Too much had happened for him to gather the focus to use it. Strangely, he was all right with this. He’d rather succeed or fail on his own. He had called himself Green Lantern before but now he knew he was really Captain Alan Scott. He had no choice.

CHAPTER

16 T

he four men peered over the ridge as the sun began to rise. They watched as the German paratroopers began to stir in preparation, moving slowly and purposefully. It was not yet

warm but in less than two hours the merciless July heat would be beating down on them. Mazis spoke in a low breathless whisper. “We can’t call in artil­ lery—those emplacements are far too close to the bridge.” Kalk nodded. “The best we can do is get to those charges.” Scott used the binoculars to check their placement. “I can’t see their placement. They’ll either detonate from the bunker or the sandbags.” He turned to look at the other three men. “Okay, we’ll need to take those charges out by hand. Kalk, you and the mortar crew try and hit the sandbagged emplacement. Mazis, take the rest of the men and pour fire on the pillbox. Pizzo and I will try and make our way to the bridge and get to the wire. If you keep ‘em busy enough, they may not notice us.”

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Scott winced at the absurdity of what he just said. Not only was he sure that the Germans would notice him, they were going to do everything they could to kill him before he even set foot on the bridge. The men nodded at their orders and turned to prepare. Kalk had two men set up the base plate of the mortar and stack the rounds where they would be in easy reach. One of the replacements unfolded the bipod legs of his BAR and fiddled with the gun sight of the automatic rifle. His belt pouches bulged with spare clips of ammo, and he took the belt off and placed it nearby. Pizzo and Scott looked at each other as they removed webbing, belts, anything that would slow them up. They both knew that they would need to scramble to the bridge. Scott said, “You go under the bridge, I’ll go on top. Don’t go for the charges themselves. Just cut any wires you see and I’ll do the same. It’ll give us some time.” Pizzo nodded. Scott tossed him a set of pliers. Scott took one more look through the binoculars. The strength of the morning light was replacing the pre-dawn flatness and now everything was sharper and more distinct. Scott scanned around until he saw a German officer walking towards the emplacement. Unlike the men among him who were wearing the green pocketed smocks of the German paratroopers, this man wore a tropical jacket and a cloth hat. He had the seasoned look of a veteran, and he carried himself as a commander. He was watching everything, and for a moment he looked up at the ridge where Scott was peering down at him. Although Scott knew that he could not been seen

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from that distance without binoculars, he had the instinct to duck and hide. As if making eye contact, the cloth-capped soldier stared in Scott’s direction. Scott knew that this was the unit commander, probably an Oberleutnant, overseeing his defenses. Scott also knew that this would be the man to give the order to blow the bridge. Scott watched as the man walked toward the pillbox and disap­ peared inside for a few minutes. Then he exited and unhurriedly crossed the road to the sandbagged, open emplacement. Although the men there did not salute, Scott could see that they were treating him with deference and some nervousness. He gestured at the machine gun, and quickly the gunner and loader shifted the MG34 to its left, where it could be swiveled for a greater field of fire. Scott smiled at th is-it was something he’d done to his men many tim es-that little detail that could turn a fight in his favor. Scott watched the man move to one side of the emplacement, and look down at something. He then crouched down, out of Scott’s sight. Scott knew that that must be where the detonator was. He saw the man stand up and say something to the junior officer behind him. The man nodded and crouched down. The man spoke sternly to the junior officer, who Scott could see was nodding while looking away in deference. Scott frowned at this. The emplacement was too near the bridge. Why have the detonator there? Why not the pillbox? Scott lowered his glasses. In Tunisia he’d had to booby trap a forward position that he knew would be occupied by the enemy. He wanted it to be command-detonated, so he set a charge and ran the wire to a concrete bunker. But the firing slits were so narrow

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he couldn’t tell when to fire off the charges and the ambush was botched. Maybe the German commander knew that he’d have to trade visibility for safety. Also, if he was incapacitated, his men would see this and take his place. Maybe he didn’t have enough wire to run it to the bunker. Scott looked behind him. Kalk and his mortar team, huffing and puffing, had just finished dragging the heavy components of the 60-millimeter mortar up the hell and were setting it up in a flat spot. “How many shells do you have?” “A dozen HE rounds. Half a dozen rounds of smoke.” “We won’t use smoke. They’re liable to get nervous if they can’t see and set off the charges.” Kalk stopped his work on assembling the mortar and let one of the team take over. He sat down on the dusty rock, looking up at Scott. He shrugged. “Okay. No smoke. What’s the plan then?” “Come up here.” Kalk crawled up next to Scott on the ridge overlooking the bridge. Scott handed him his field glasses. “I’m going to need you to take out the emplacement nearest the bridge.” “The sandbagged one?” “Yeah. You’ll have to be quick. If you drop smoke in, you won’t be able to see if you took it out.” “Understood.” “You think you can do it in 12 rounds?” “Yes sir. But that’ll leave you wide open to fire from the pillbox.

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And what if they have a way of setting off the charges from the pillbox?” “Then we’re all screwed. We’ll go in five minutes.” “Yes, sir.” Scott slid over to Mazis, who was sitting with his squad against the opposite slope of the ridge. They crawled to the crest and Scott pointed to the pillbox. “I’m going to need your team to pour fire into that slit. Keep their heads down. Pizzo and I will make the run to the near side of the bridge, then get under it to find the charges.” “Okay. How the hell are you going to get to the bridge?” “We’ll just have to run for it.” Mazis looked at the sixty yards of open terrain between the base of the ridge and the bridge. He turned to look at Scott, and his normally solemn expression turned to amazement. He even stopped chewing his gum. “You’ll get shot to pieces, sir.” “Don’t w ony about me. Just get fire on the position, okay?” “Well it’s a simple plan at least. Yes, sir.” Scott slapped Mazis on the shoulder and scrambled down to get his weapon. He couldn’t resist glancing one last time more at the ring his finger and summoned his will power to bring forth the power. If there was any chance of it coming alive, it would have to happen now. But the ring remained cold and inanimate. Scott got ready to lead his charge.

As he ran, Scott could see everything sharply: the angiy blinking light of the muzzle of the MG-34 firing, the puffs of powder and

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concrete chips flying as the Mazis’ squad tried to suppress the machine-gun with their own gunfire. Scott noted that the German gun was continuing to fire despite the accuracy of the suppressing fire, and he saw dirt and sand kicking up in lines towards him, then to one side of him. He could feel something tug sharply at his pant leg, and he could hear himself breathing as he ran forward, towards the bridge. Mazis’ squad continued to fire on the pillbox, but the soldiers inside grimly continued to try and kill Scott. Scott saw a line of German paratroopers emerge from one the small village’s buildings and make a run for the sandbagged emplacement at the bridge. As they trotted bent at the waist toward the position, some armed with machine pistols, others carrying boxes of ammunition, an explosion erupted among the five men, sending two of them and pieces of a third flying sideways through the air, their limbs flailing and breaking under the concussion. Scott could see this clearly. The other two made it to the emplacement without looking back at their fallen comrades, and quickly prepared to fire the machine-gun. Just then the entire emplacement blew inside-out, knocking the men, machine-gun and sandbags forward. A moment later another mortar hit in almost the same location, obliterating the position. Scott continued to run forward, and as he allowed himself some hope he felt something kick his left foot out from under him and he fell. He guessed that a bullet hit his leg or foot, but he did not feel pain. He looked down at his left boot to see that the rubber heel had been shot off. German fire was hitting all around him and the steady roar of

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automatic gunfire was deafening. Unfortunately, it all seemed be coming from the German side. Scott was consumed by the resolve and single-minded purpose of the mission. He would try to keep the bridge intact, or he would die trying, and the certainty of that pushed out fear, and doubt. The success of the mission was distilled to one action: to stop the Ger­ man officer he knew would either give the order or actually blow the bridge. Everything else-the bridge intact, the reinforcements, the amphibious invasion and the critical linkup along this road leading to the capture of Sicily making real the possibility of invading the Italian m ainland-was forgotten, or rather, reduced to the action of Scott stopping this one man. Scott became mechanical, feeding all energy and focus to the goal, and it was literally what he was living for at this very moment. His future was in the next two minutes of his life. Nothing else mattered. As Scott was accustomed to, time slowed down in the chaos of combat and for a brief moment he looked down at the band of alien metal on the ring finger of his left hand. He could see that it was glowing. Scott brought the ring up—the intensity of the power as great as he’d ever seen it. It was astonishing to him, and it had been so long he had to think how to channel and use the power. He had belief in himself again, through the mission. He knew he could save the bridge and this belief was activating the once-dormant ring. Now, with his focus honed to this task, the power of the ring awakened within him. But as he was about to use this power, something made him turn

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his head. When he did he saw Pizzo a few yards back, lying on his stomach, legs and arms spread, completely relaxed as if he were asleep, which told Scott that Pizzo was dead. The fight suddenly went out of Scott. Pizzo was dead because of him—another death at Scott’s expense. Was it worth it? Was he doing the right thing and was it worth the cost? As Scott’s uncer­ tainty grew, the glow on the ring began to wane. Scott looked at Pizzo’s body for a long time, so long that the Germans eased their fire on him, thinking he was incapacitated. Scott turned forward and began to get to his feet. As he did so he saw a huge muzzle flash erupt from behind a house and the concus­ sion of a shell flying past slapped at his ears. A split-second later he heard the impact of that shell on the ridge behind him, and he turned to see a plume of dust and crater where Mazis’ squad was. In a moment he knew the battle was lost. The Germans had an 88 gun hidden in the village and it was more than enough to switch the momentum in their favor. The German gun would decimate Scott and his men. Scott saw the German commander emerge from the pillbox and make a run for the emplacement. Scott knew that he was going for the detonator and he was powerless to stop him. But he knew he had to try. Scott got to his feet and began moving forward. The bullets slapped around him and he could hear them crack as they flew by him, but he continued to move forward until he was trotting, then running at his enemy counterpart. Scott could see that the officer had stopped and was looking at something. In the town, the flash of flame from the barrel of the 88

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erupted again and another artillery round ripped past Scott in a flat trajectory towards the ridge behind him. Yet the German officer did not seem to notice this and stood staring. Scott had seen much odd behavior in battle. Men standing up and walking away, or into Fire, others laughing, caught up in the insanity of the moment, and he was not surprised that this German officer would freeze. So he took the opportunity to bring his rifle up to shoot him. He was just forty feet away from the emplacement, and he stopped and aimed carefully. In that same moment, he became aware that something was drawing the German fire away from him. He turned to look behind him. On the ridge was a large, muscular man wearing a green uniform. Like the Germans, Scott stopped and stared. The man’s uniform was a suit veiy much like the one Scott wore as Green Lantern. Scott had a flash of the day he obsessively and meticulously created the suit: the urge to do so was a base instinct driven by some force or purpose that he resented as it propelled him, like a man going through the motions of marrying a woman he didn’t love. Yet when he wore this outfit that defined the super hero he hoped to be, he found that while the cape and the mask gave him the stronger belief in purpose of the character of the Green Lantern, it drew him away from being Alan Scott. And here was this other man in a similar suit standing in a way Scott recognized to be supremely confident in his super-hero role. He could see this the same way an alcoholic can look across a

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crowded room and spot the same traits in another. By just setting eyes on him Scott had absolute knowledge that he was here for Scott. Because he was standing near the top of the ridge, the stranger was taking the fire from the Germans. Scott could see that the bullets were hitting his skin, pushing the flesh in and welting it for a moment, but otherwise making no effect. The spent bullets were dropping to the dirt around the stranger like rain drops. The stranger strode down the ridge slope towards Scott. The impact of the bullets pushed at him as if her were being sways be a gentle wind. “You are Alan Scott.” A question? A statement. Scott nodded. He man looked down at Scott. “I am Malvolio.” Scott stared. This was apparently meant to have meaning to him. “Look, this is a really bad time for introductions,” Scott said. Malvolio reached out and grabbed Scott by the shoulders and brought him up to him, peering into his eyes as if to discover some code or reason. Across the ravine the Germans opened fire, a huge ferocious rip­ ping sound. Malvolio quickly turned his back on them, his broad back absorbing the fire, the bullets impacting against his skin and muscle then falling or ricocheting to the dirt and rock around them. Malvolio was buffeted by this but was otherwise oblivious to the Germans’ efforts to kill him. He kept his crushing grip on Scott. For some reason, Scott was not afraid as much as curious. Malvolio spoke. “I’ve come to destroy you.”

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Scott smiled. “What took you so long?” Malvolio’s look went quickly from ferocity to surprise, then to confusion and rage. Malvolio raised Scott up and threw him to the ground the way a child would slam a doll to the floor in a fit. He walked a few steps away, mulling his options. Frustrated, he raised his leg and stomped on a boulder the size of a bowling ball, pulver­ izing it to a mist of dust. He walked back to Scott, as the frenzy of gunfire continuing around them. Scott lay back and watched as Malvolio walked next to him and raised his foot up, cocking it to bring it down onto Scott’s head. Scott watched: there was nothing else he could do. Still, bullets impacted and fell from Malvolio’s chest, buffeting him slightly. Malvolio and Scott made eye contact. Malvolio brought his heavy leather boot down with a full and crushing force but with inhuman quickness stopped the heel a fraction of an inch away from the bridge of Scott’s nose. “It can’t be,” Malvolio said. Scott blinked. “What?” “This easy. To defeat you.” “Leave me alone. There’s a war on.” Malvolio swept his arm, gesturing at the sporadic firefight. “This?” “This,” replied Scott. Scott turned to see Mazis and what remained of squad, with Kalk’s men, coming down the ridge, firing from the hip, some sort of crazy charge right out of a Kipling poem.

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A boom as the German 88 gun in the village fired at the Americ­ ans. Scott heard the slap of flesh on metal and suddenly Malvolio was holding the shell of 88 millimeter projectile in his hands, the shell glowing white-hot. Malvolio held it for a moment, then turned and whipped it at the American soldiers. It exploded among them. Scott saw his men shredded by the metal shrapnel, tom apart like raw meat from the force of the blast. Scott did not have to look to see if the ring on his hand in the dust was glowing. Scott’s desire to avenge the deaths of his men fueled his willpower, making the ring come alive. Scott flew from his prone position in a burst of green flame towards Malvolio, the air cracking from the force of his body moving faster than sound. In the split second Malvolio began to look back down to turn his attention to Scott, he sensed that something had changed and he was in danger. In that same moment he felt a shock of pain to his chest and he was tumbling backwards through the air for a great distance, then smashing into something heavy and metallic. His chest heaving from the blow, he turned to see that he was on the bent wreckage of the cannon that had just fired at him. He pushed himself up through the fresh wreckage of fallen roof tiles, wood and plaster to get his bearings. He spotted Alan Scott standing across the ravine, staring at him. Then soldiers were coming at him, their guns belching rapid fire, but through the force of his will he blocked them and their bullets, and with a gesture of his hand swept them away and into the ravine. Alan Scott could see Malvolio in the village among the Germans, who in their panic turned their attention to killing him. But Malvolio

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used his power like a great broom to sweep the squad of paratroopers off their feet and send them tumbling down the road and over the ravine’s edge. Scott walked toward the bridge. The mission for him had changed. The German officer emerged from the wreckage of the gun and turned to Scott. Intent on fulfilling his duty, he ran to the sand­ bagged emplacement and pulled out the detonator to the charges on the bridge. Scott shot ten delicate tendrils of green energy from his fingertips through the air to the bridge, sparking along the girders like little spiders until they crawled over the wires leading to the charges. Then, growing pincers, Scott’s energy spiders sliced through the wires. The energy spiders then scuttled toward the German officer, the severed wires in tow, and scrambling up the soldier’s legs, wrapped the officer with the wire. The German looked incredulously at Scott with an expression of someone who’d caught a cheat at a card game: it wasn’t fair what Scott was doing to him, but it was war in every sense, which meant that fairness had absolutely nothing to do with it. Scott felt the ground rumble beneath him and turned to see hundreds of tons of rock and dirt coming down on him from the ridge. Scott realized that Malvolio had willed this to happen, so Scott countered, using his power to push a space between the rock and dirt, keeping the road to the bridge open. The two Green Lanterns flew toward each other, each gathering his power, harnessing and focusing it in a psychic test of brute will. Neither could tell if they were locked in struggle for a moment

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or hours. Time froze for them, and they were only aware of each other’s power. They rose from the ground thousands of feet into the atmosphere, weaving in and out of billowing clouds, chasing each other as the air cracked with sonic booms of their flight, green bolts lashing through the darkened sky as they launched streams of charged plasma at each other. The crackling power of their fight brought rolling thunderheads and within moments the countryside was thrown into darkness by threatening clouds and humid, heavy air. The weird darkness was sometimes challenged by blinding flashes illuminating the landscape with green light, like gigantic flashbulbs, freezing the image of the two men in combat with each other in kinescope-like tableaus as they deflected each other’s attempts to capture or destroy with their power. Scott was surprised to see Malvolio wielding the same energy as his and as they flew at each other, intent on inflicting maximum violence, neither was able to physically touch the other. The parrying and shielding was all done with the power of their rings. Malvolio tried to weave a web of power around Scott, who countered with a slicing blast through the fabric of energy, but Malvolio quickly tightened around Scott like a cocoon. Scott felt himself being pulled downward, unable to move his arms and legs. As they dove towards the ocean, something caught Scott’s attention: a squadron of B-25s, probably from the base at Pianosa, was flying northward. Summoning his will, Scott pulled against Malvolio’s rope of power, and the two Green Lanterns altered their trajectory slightly toward the bombers.

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McWatt, the pilot of the lead bomber, keyed his throat mike. “Do you all see what’s coming at us, eleven o’clock high?” The bombardier replied back over the intercom, “Looks like... two men. Maybe they bailed out.” McWatt keyed his mike again. “What’s that they’re all wrapped up in? That shimmering green stuff?” “Maybe it’s a new kind of parachute,” one of the gunner chimed “They’re falling kind of slow.” “What do we do?” the bombardier asked. Seeing that he and Malvolio were close to the formation, Scott summoned his energy to project an enormous symbol around Mal­ volio. McWatt gasped as he saw a giant swastika circling around one of the falling men. “Do you see that?” The upper gunner pulled back the cocking level of his twin .50 caliber machine guns. “Sure did.” “Fire at will!” The squadron of B-25s opened fire on Malvolio. And because they hadn’t seen an enemy fighter in several bombing runs, they were happy to have something to shoot at. The gunfire directed at Malvolio wasn’t enough to injure him but it was distraction enough for him to lose concentration, letting Scott break free and dive through the formation of bombers. The planes slewed and dipped in Scott’s wake, almost colliding with each other. Scott dove down below them, into cloud cover, with Malvolio following closely behind.

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The bomber crews searched for any sign of the mystery men. Then, suddenly both men flew out of a cloud and straight up through the formation of twin-engine bombers, causing the pilots to wildly bank their planes. The bombardier shouted into the intercom. “Did you see that? They were falling up!”

As he chased Scott, Malvolio felt his strength weakening-he had squandered much of his power escaping through the Stargate and was unable to recharge his ring. He would need to attempt some­ thing new to him: diplomacy. But First he would have to gamble. They were in the stratosphere now, fighting in the thin air, the blackness of space above and the magnificent arching horizon of the Earth below. The kinetic energy of the battle continued to cause storms to charge instantly beneath them, and lightning snap-flashed through the enormous thunderheads roiling up from the warm air below. Malvolio stopped fighting. “We should join forces.” “You killed my men,” Scott replied. “And for that you’re going to pay.” “A terrible mistake, to be sure,” Malvolio said. “Many were attempting to destroy me. Why do you not avenge those other men?” “They were the enemy.” Malvolio stared at Scott. “I’m not from your tim e-your rules are much more complicated. In my time I killed whomever was attempting to do the same to me.” “Like now,” Scott said.

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“This is why I'm no longer fighting. We are both Green Lanterns. My actions were terrible mistakes. But if you must take your revenge... ” Malvolio spread his arms wide, inviting Scott’s death blow. So Scott delivered it. Malvolio felt his body coming apart at cellular level. Scott was literally blowing him apart, disintegrating him. He tumbled towards the Earth, his pain surreal and enormous. Scott watched him fall. He knew that although Malvolio reflex­ ively used his power to keep himself from fully vaporizing, the fall would kill him. So he watched his enemy tumble toward the ocean below. He thought about what Malvolio had said. He did not believe him. Malvolio was in agony. He used his remaining power to ward off Scott’s destruction but had none left to stop his fall. His gambit had failed, death was beckoning, and the rush of air spun his body lazily as he plunged towards Earth. Scott hovered, watching Malvolio become a dot in the atmosphere below. He thought hard and remembered what Beasley once told him: “It’s not about being innocent: it’s about not being completely guilty.” Malvolio killed his men. He clearly wasn’t innocent. But maybe Malvolio wasn’t completely guilty. Like Dekker. “Damn.” Scott dove down after Malvolio.

Mal volio awakened to see Alan Scott staring down at him. He could

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not guess what Scott was thinking, but he knew that he would not be alive if it wasn’t for Scott. His bluff had worked. Malvolio sat up amidst the carnage of the battle around them. All the soldiers were dead. Malvolio looked at his ring—it was dark. He held it up for Scott to see. Scott shook his head. “I saved you but I don’t trust you,” Scott told him. “You’ll live without the power until I trust you.” “A bargain, Green Lantern.” “Don’t call me that until I’m in costume. No one knows that Alan Scott is the Green Lantern.” “Why do you hide your great power?” “Personal reasons. But in front of anyone else I’m Alan Scott. Betray me and you’ll be sorry.” “I have no doubt.” “I’m going to find out why you’re here, but until then you’re suspect, understand?” “Completely. Although I’ve failed miserably at this so far, I’ve been sent to help you, Alan Scott.” “Great,” Scott replied. “I could teach you a great deal,” Malvolio declared. “You have enormous power but lack the will to use it.” “Maybe I don’t want to,” Scott said. “But think of all you could do.” Scott looked at Malvolio. “I used to be ambitious. It didn’t work out.” They both heard the rumble at the same time. Scott remembered his mission and at first was delighted to hear the reinforcements, until he realized it was from the wrong side. A column of German

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Mark IV tan k s- eight-were making their way up the grade to the bridge. Scott turned to Malvolio. “I’ve got a job to do.” Scott looked down at his ring, but the power was faltering—the conflicts from within him were clouding his power. Malvolio put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “This is a trifling. Allow me. Please, before more of your fellow countrymen die.” Scott realized he had no choice. Malvolio walked towards the tank column. The commander of the lead tank was SS. Scott saw that he wore a headset over his black officer’s cap. The hauptmann shouted a command into the microphone hanging from his neck. The tank came to a halt. Now just thirty yards away, Malvolio strode towards the lead tank. He smiled, looking forward to the work before him. A huge green blade emanated from Malvolio, opaque and shim­ mering with energy. Malvolio focused and the blade fell on the tank, literally cleaving it in two. The men inside tumbled out, lucky to escape it. Malvolio then turned his energy on them and using the green force, gathered them together, the energy a string now, wrapping them tighter and tighter, condensing the men together and they screamed for help and mercy, the string blending until they were cocooned it in, then Malvolio squeezing them men, grinding them against each other, compressing them as if they were in the deepest ocean and their skin and flesh came apart as if they were cooked and all that was left of them was a mass of dead flesh, gristle and fluid. Malvolio dropped this mess onto the road. Another tank fired at

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him with machine gun fire, and for dramatic effect Malvolio allowed this, laughing as the rounds splashed the dirt around him and pelted off of him. Then, focusing his energy on this tank, it began to shake, more and more violently until it literally came to pieces, the men inside smashed against the bulkhead so much that they looked as if they’d been beaten with tire irons. The rivets of the tank popped like buttons on a tight sweater, and the pieces fell apart until finally the shells inside detonated, that tank blowing itself apart. The remaining three tanks reversed down the slope, the lead tank firing on the move. The shell impacted at Malvolio’s feet and for a moment he was thrown into the air, but he spun and landed in a crouch. He concentrated on the offending tank, and Scott could see a bright light emanating from the slits. The top hatch was thrown open and a column of light shot from it, too bright to look at. What was left of the commander tried to climb from it, his eyes burned to liquid-filled sockets, blood running from his nose, mouth and ears, richly red and flowing heavy, before he fell back down into the tank, from this agony to death. Scott’s mouth dropped open. “My God.” Malvolio’s hand was outstretched and he was soaked in sweat but clearly enjoying his work. The quietness of the aftermath of the carnage was startling, and Malvolio snapped out of his death-trance, looking at his now totally dark ring. He walked back to Scott and stared into his eyes. “It is will, Alan Scott. My will. I see it and it becomes. That is what I have to offer you.” Malvolio took the musette bag from Scott’s hands and pulled out

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the green lantern. Scowling, he took the lantern between his massive hands and crushed it to a fine dust swirling in the hot Sicilian wind. “You do not need such trivial foolishness,” declared Malvolio. “All you will need is will and purpose.” Scott was dumbfounded. “I needed that lantern to recharge my ring. Every twenty-four hours.” Scott held up his dark ring. “I’m not going to be much good with this.” Malvolio grinned and touched his ring to Scott’s. Like candles sharing a flame, they both glowed brightly and the ring of each gave new life to the other.

The general walked the battlefield and the fresh death that was everywhere. Already a column of Sherman tanks and trucks loaded with infantry were rolling across the bridge to link up with the amphibious forces making their way off the beaches five miles ahead. The fact that the bridge was standing was considered a mir­ acle, and the general came to see for himself how it happened. Scott sat on a stone, head down, ignoring his success, still dealing with the shock of combat. The general understood this but he was also firm when he spoke the Scott. “What can you tell me about this?” Scott looked up. “He did it, sir. All of it.” The general looked at Malvolio, who was standing on the knocked-out pillbox, watching the troops roll by. The men were whistling and whooping at the strange long-haired guy in the funny costume, and he was enjoying their esprit: he was always moved by the magnificence of war. The general shot a look to his aide, Colonel Pryne. The colonel

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was long, thin and rangy, the star center on his high school basket­ ball team in Indiana. The colonel was all-American and brilliant in a way that did not come from books. He was invaluable to the general, picking up opportunities and exploiting them with discre­ tion, just as he had on the boards of the basketball courts of his youth. Pryne would understand the general’s orders without the general having to utter them or commit them to paper. Piyne saw to it that the job got done, even if it wasn’t officially “on the books.” It was his specialty. Pryne turned to Scott. “Captain, we’ll need you to escort Mister Mai... ” “Malvolio.” “...to the States.” Scott looked up sharply. “The States? Back home?” “For a while. You’ll be debriefed and we’ll need to look more closely to Mister Malvolio’s capabilities.” “Why me? Why do I have to go?” “Because Mister Malvolio has requested it. He’s making some interesting statements, Scott. If they’re true—and his work on this battlefield is proof of it—we’ll win the war faster. Much faster.”

CHAPTER

17 T

wo weeks later Scott found himself on the streets of Gotham, everything unreal, the cheerfully screaming billboard advert­ isements, the people rushing to work, taxicab drivers cursing

the late-inning failure of their favorite baseball team, the latest dance craze, everything that had absolutely no meaning on a front, in a war zone, in combat, under fire. Scott had spent the last few months refining his abilities as a combat engineer and had seen more than his share of combat. And because of that he felt closer in many ways to his enemies than to these people leading their lives of distraction. At least he had an understanding with the enemy that effective destruction was their shared goal, and he alternately hated and respected them. And he found that without this hate and respect, he could not effectively do his job. So to Scott, the avenues of Gotham were less home to him than the wadis of North Africa, or the treacherous hill towns and shallow foxholes in Sicily. And to make matters worse he had this stranger/brother in Malvolio with him, the sharer of instant history;

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just add water and a green ring and it all comes together. Malvolio was striding in front of Scott, imperious, demanding in his manner that others step out of his path. Scott’s job was to watch Malvolio, keep him under wraps and find out what he could about the man’s background and mission. Of course he couldn’t reveal Malvolio’s identity as a Green Lantern for fear of putting his own at risk. So he lied. The oak-paneled bar was dimly lit and clogged with smoke. Scott spotted Piyne right away, staring into a cup of black coffee. Scott pulled a stool next to Pryne and ordered a bourbon and broke open a new pack of cigarettes. He was relieved that he wasn’t sitting across from Pryne but next to him, where he wouldn’t have to look directly in the soldier’s face when he lied to him. Piyne sipped his coffee. “How do you like being home?” “I don’t.” “I know how you feel. But this could push things in our favor.” “Spare me the cheerleading speech, Piyne.” “What have you got?” “He’s not Germ an-he’s from England somewhere. An orphan, no real history on him.” That much was true, Scott thought. He lit a cigarette and continued, blowing smoke through his nose as he talked. “He’s apolitical.” “So he’s just as likely to be working for the enemy? What’s he want—money?” “No, he’s more like a-an d I mean this in the most general sense-a monk or a priest. He likes to answer to a higher calling.” “Good.” Scott knew that Pryne would view his analogy of Malvolio as a

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positive one, that somehow Malvolio was God-fearing and more like Americans than the godless Nazis or Bolsheviks. But what Scott didn’t say was who that higher being was that Malvolio found so much more important. Pryne turned to Scott. “One last th in g -I’m asking your opinion on this.” “Go ahead.” “Is he crazy?” “How so?” “Christ, Scott, did you see what he did out there? And it’s like he hasn’t thought twice about it. For someone to do something like that... ” Pryne looked down and shook his head, the bumed-in memories of the aftermath of the battle coming back to his consciousness. Scott let the rest of his bourbon slide down his open throat, and licked his lips. “Colonel, one week ago I drove a bayonet into the back of a German sentry, and wriggled it around until it ripped open his heart. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. I did it in the name of democracy and freedom. And now here I am with you having a drink and a smoke. So I’ll give you my answer: yes, he’s stark raving bonkers, battle-wacky and screwed up for life.” Pryne blinked at Scott a couple times, stood up and dropped some coins next to his coffee. Then he reached into his pocket and placed a sealed envelope next to Scott’s cigarettes. “Here are your orders, Captain. There’re be a DC-3 waiting to take you two to the War Department in Washington tomorrow. There

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you’ll be briefed on your next assignment. Enjoy the rest of your leave.” Scott motioned to get to his feet, but Pryne placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “As you were, Captain. And just remember what the man said.” “What’s that?” Piyne leaned in and whispered into Scott’s ear. “It’s easier to fight for one’s principles than to live up to them.”

Malvolio watched the buildings of Gotham go by as he sat in the back of the taxicab. In many ways it was similar to what he’d known: the chaos of the rich and the poor, the crush of merchants, thieves and whores. Everything was faster, the machines were noisier, but other than that the people were the same—same vanities, wishes, pettiness and fears. They only dressed and smelled different. And in this place and in this time they were obsessed about a conflict, a “world war.” The inaccuracy of the expression made Malvolio smile. He had seen a world engulfed in conflict. If they only knew a true world war. The cab stopped and Scott tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to make a stop to see a friend.” Malvolio followed his host out of the cab and into the magnificent granite and steel lobby of the Apex Broadcasting Building.

The clatter and clamor of the newsroom set Malvolio back. “What manner of place is this?”

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Scott made his way through the busy reporters and copyboys toward the offices in back. “It’s a newsroom.” They passed a bank of recording booths filled with reporters speaking into microphones, reading from the typewritten copy in their hands. Malvolio watched a sports reporter animatedly broadcasting the scores of the day, a huge cigar locked between his fingers and he shouted and purred into the large microphone. “Is this serious work?” “They think so.” Scott knocked on the door to Irene’s office. Finding it open, he poked his head in. As usual she wasn’t there, but he could tell what she’d been doing the last few months by what was on her desk. Stepping in, he ran his fingers over maps of Guadalcanal and the Solomon Islands laying on her desk, coffee-stained and wrinkled, a magnifying loop on them. An aluminum ashtray made from the casing of a fifty-five milli­ meter artillery shell was stuffed to overflowing with spent, lipstickstained butts, along with the silver lighter he gave her just before he shipped off. With the wire story copy paper lying about, it’s amazing that she hadn’t set her desk on fire. He frowned at the half-written copy still in her typewriter-an article about the jungle fighting near Henderson field. Had she gone overseas? He had stopped writing to her months ago when he was spending extended time in combat. He had assumed her not writing back was in retaliation to his silence, but now he saw that she was as immersed in the war as he was, not as a participant but as an observer.

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“Well, well, well.” Scott turned and there she was in front of him suddenly, his fantasy of many nights while overseas, harder-edged than he remembered (or preferred in his fantasies), hands on hips, copy in hand, lipstick red and eyes big as a deer’s, but with a predator’s glint in them: Irene in her glory, too smart for most men and intolerant of so many others, yet the one for Alan Scott. He looked at her knowing that they were both too world-weary for the rush and lung-sucking Big Kiss. Instead they stood apart, sardonic grins on their faces, appraising each other, sharing the pleasure of each other’s company after so many months, so much uncertainty, danger and the world spinning out of control. Finally, as if on invisible cue, they came together for a kiss. Holding her, Scott felt the instant animal surge to drag her to some room, any room, under this desk, and have her, throw himself into her, lose himself. This was pure instinct—their relationship was built on wit, shared ambition and respect. But the instinct whipped through him like bad liquor, making his heart race, his throat con­ strict and blood pump. Then, looking into her green eyes, he saw that she felt it as well, a shock to both of them, since nothing in their past or their letters to each other conveyed this. For one second Scott looked around for an empty room. A tap on his shoulder brought him out of this idea. Malvolio was staring at Irene with an expression he had never seen before. It wasn’t so much lust or desire as pure, childlike awe. Scott cleared his throat and stepped away from Irene’s embrace. “Irene, this is Mai.”

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Scott and Irene gaped as Malvolio gently took Irene’s outstretched hand and dropped to one knee in genuflection. “Well, pleased to meet you too!” she laughed. But when Malvolio looked up and locked eyes with her, she stopped. She could see a churning mixture of emotion in his look—love, hurt and animal anger. Her laughter dried up in her throat. ”So what you doing back here?” she said to Scott. “I’m on leave with Mai here. Thought I’d show him Gotham.” “How do you two know each other?” Scott looked at Malvolio. “He’s my uncle.” “No, really.” Scott sighed. He didn’t think she’d buy that. “We’re in the same unit overseas. Mai is from England.” Malvolio turned to Irene. “We share the power of the flame.” Irene nodded, confused. “I see.” Scott took Irene by the arm and led her away from Malvolio. She spoke to Scott out of the corner of her mouth. “What is up with him?” “Don’t ask. He’s a bit shell-shocked. Look-I have to leave town for a couple days, but I’ll be back. Can I see you?” “Sure.” “How are things with you?” “I’m still looking to get posted overseas.” Scott turned to her, concerned. “What?” “I’m sick of writing copy for these overblown hacks. There are more stories out there, and I want to be there when they break.”

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“You don’t belong in combat,” Scott told her. Irene looked miffed. “I thought we established that a girl like me can take care of herself.” Scott shook his head. “It’s not about you being a girl. No one who can avoid it should be in combat. It’s not how it’s written up in the press, Irene.” “That’s why I want to go, Alan.” Scott knew he couldn’t explain it to her. Combat could not be explained. Anyway, he knew he couldn’t stop her once she made up her mind. “I’ve got to get Mai back to his hotel,” Scott said. “I’ll see you later, okay?” Irene gave him a sweet, lopsided smile. “You’d better. Call me.” Once they were on the street, Malvolio turned and stared at Scott. “Why did you lie to the girl about me?” “Look, I told you before-no one knows that I have these powers. Not even her.” “Who do they think has it then?” Malvolio asked. “The Green Lantern.” “Are you and he not one and the same?” “We are, but I’m keeping my identity a secret.” “Explain this to me,” demanded Malvolio. “If everyone knew that I was the Green Lantern, I couldn’t be myself,” Scott said. “Therein lies your weakness. You are no longer Alan Scott. You are Green Lantern. Why do you insist on remaining part of this rabble?”

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Scott stopped walking and turned to Malvolio. “Because I’ve seen what power does.” A thousand thoughts flickered behind Malvolio's dark eyes. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “You have not harnessed the lantern’s magnificence,” Malvolio said. “You have no understanding of the great power you have, do you? Your time is wasted among these weaklings. You are destined for greater things.” Pushing through the sidewalk crowded with people, Scott yelled over his shoulder, “I’ve heard that speech before, Mai. Save it.”

CHAPTER

18 T

he darkened room in the basement of the War Department had a large heavy table, chairs, pitcher of water and glasses, and ash trays. The only men in the room were Scott, Malvolio

and Colonel Pryne. Before Scott could ask a question, a door opened and in stepped the general that Scott had only read about in the papers. He did know that as this war progressed, the man in the room with them held more information on every aspect of it than anyone in the world, including President Roosevelt. The men rose to their feet as the general stepped in. The general waved them back down to their seats and came around the table to shake Malvolio’s hand. The general’s steely-hard gaze locked into Malvolio’s as they sized each other up. In that moment, the general came away looking more troubled than reas­ sured. “At ease, gentlemen. Let’s get right down to it.”

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The general pulled back a curtain along the wall to reveal a map of a chain of islands in the Pacific. “These islands are part of our island-hopping campaign we’re embarking on in the PTO. It’s our first step toward getting us within striking distance of Japan.” Using his hands instead of the wooden pointer, the general ges­ tured across the huge map as if he were a painter and the war map his canvas. “The first objective is this string of islands. The largest one-here-holds an airfield, which will be critical for providing fighter escorts for our bombing missions against the Japanese mainland. Because it is so close to Japan, we’re expecting heavy resistance. We’ll need that island. But it’s this other island that we’re interested in as well.” The general pointed to a small island northeast of the large chain of islands. It couldn’t have been bigger than half-mile in diameter. “Intercepted and decoded radio transmissions are telling us that the Japanese are digging something up on that island, based on intelligence they were given by the Nazis. They’ve got a massive garrison there and hundreds of slave laborers-some of them allied POWs—digging deep into the core of the dormant volcano there. “Although the invasion of the main islands in this chain is critical, we’re sending an amphibious force to take this island as well. Ostensibly, it’s to liberate the POWs there. But what we’re really going after is what the Japanese are attempting to dig up.” Piyne couldn’t resist waiting and blurted out the question on his mind. “What is it they’re digging up, sir?”

•

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Of course the general was waiting for this question. As if on cue, three M Ps-two armed with carbines, and one holding a silver box the size of a toaster, marched it into the room. The box was placed on the conference table. The general waited for the guards’ departure before reaching into the lapel pocket of his uniform and producing a key and opening the box. The general paused before opening the lid. For a moment he looked like a weaiy old man, the weight of the world on him, crushing him as if he were at the bottom of the sea. “Every day I face a multitude of decisions, any one of which can change the course of the war. I can tell you that it’s impossible to know what the rippling effects are of such decisions. But I can tell you that what is in this box will win the war for whomever possesses it.” With that the general flipped open the lid. Comically, all three men peered cautiously into the box, as if vipers were going to leap at them. What they saw were two rings. They were glowing. Malvolio smiled. Scott frowned. The general stared at the rings. “We know that these artifacts contain a tremendous amount of power, more than anything we’ve seen or developed. What we don’t know is how to use this power. “We also know that the Germans have been searching for and, I fear, finding these things, which are apparently scattered all around the world. We’ve managed to find these two, and the Japanese are going after a third. We think Hitler may have one.” Silence fell like a shroud.

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“You knew of the rings, Lord Malvolio. Better yet, you used the power of the ring in Sicily against that German tank column. And then you told us that you knew where to find the remaining rings. That is why you’re here, talking to me. We want your help in recovering the remaining rings and we want you to join us in defeating the Axis forces.” Malvolio reached out and closed the lid of the box. “You overestimate my current abilities, sir. I can remember little about who I am or how I got here. The forces I used on that island came from me by reflex and my instinct to defend myself. But I am embarrassed to say that I can recall nothing of its origin, nor of mine. And with my cursed mind in this foggy state it is a talent that I can neither explain nor enlighten. Nor do I know where the remaining rings are. I am sorry.” The general, Pryne and Scott shared glances. Malvolio continued with a bow. “But I am at your leave to assist you and your great nation in your struggle against the darkness of these evil men.” The general exhaled. Scott couldn’t tell if he was relieved or dis­ appointed. “I appreciate that, Lord Malvolio. I, too, wish I knew who you are and where you came from. I do believe that any help you can provide in giving us insight or securing these rings would be a huge step towards this conflict’s resolution. And the sooner we end this war, the better. The fact of the matter is that you did something with this power that none of us can do.” Malvolio looked at Scott. Before Malvolio could respond, Scott spoke up. “Sir, what do we know of the allied prisoners there?”

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“They’re survivors from Corregidor,” the general replied. “Two weeks ago, one of our submarines sank a troop ship. We had no idea that it was loaded with prisoners outbound from this island. Unfortunately, most of the POWs perished, but a handful survived. They reported deplorable conditions on that island, and a heavily reinforced Japanese garrison. Their reports are in these dossiers. I’m afraid I can’t let you take them, but you may examine them here.” Scott opened the reports from the prisoner/survivors, carefully typed from transcripts on self-deteriorating paper. As he flipped through he caught key w ords-“mine workers,” “green lights,” “executions,” “malaria.” At the end of the report was a list of names of the POWs the survivors could recall were at the camp on the island. The list was surprisingly long—over a hundred names—and Scott idly scanned them until one caught his eye:

S/Sgt. Paul Shustak, Fox Company, 2nd Div

The general spoke. “The invasion force is on its way from San Diego as we speak. The invasion will be in six days. We’d like for you to be present for this.” Malvolio nodded. “I will be there. You have my word.”

CHAPTER

19 B

athed in moonlight, Malvolio stood on the ledge of the building, looking down to the street five stories below. He was displeased at what he saw.

Irene was kissing Scott passionately at her doorstep. Malvolio had followed them as they strode through Gotham arm in arm, chatting, laughing and arguing. He saw the ease of their presence with one another, and he was consumed with envy. But at the same time he knew that he could win her over with the force of his will. Anyway, it was destined. He pulled the locket from his tunic. The image inside had survived with him through time and space, triumph and imprisonment. Malvolio snapped open the locket and stared at the face of a young woman, the image of his mother before her pain, her troubles-before him. Her face was identical to Irene Miller’s. Malvolio allowed himself a moment of self-pity and almost ten­ derness as he touched the faded image. Then, looking down at the 201

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dusk-lit avenue, the streetlamps kicking on as Irene leaned in Scott’s arms as she looked up at him chatting, laughing once again at a something Scott said, a joke Malvolio could not hear. Malvolio brooded and considered his options. Scott was not a threat, nor was he a source of the vast power he’d need to rule. No, Scott was pitiful, unable to tap his potential as Green Lantern. And now that Malvolio had destroyed Scott’s lantern, Scott wasn’t a threat at all. Still—the strength he showed in Sicily had shocked Malvolio. But it was a fluke, and Malvolio knew that the power was spent in that battle. Once he gathered the rings, he would be able to recharge and destroy Scott for good. His ring held the faintest of glows: enough for Malvolio to do some traveling and seek out the rings the general had referred to. Then, with the Americans leading to the other rings, his power would be once again fully restored. And he would confront Irene in due time.

CHAPTER

20 D

octor Otto Ackermann was as usual in his lab, deep within the concrete and steel-reinforced bunker buried one hundred feet under the German Chancelleiy. Because of the import­

ance of Ackermann’s work and his personal interest in it, the Ftihrer wanted him close, and the scientist’s reaction to his move to the underground space quickly went from flattery to fear. The cramped room gave him just enough space for his equipment and a small desk, but he was forced to work standing, with little room to maneuver. His anxiety in the claustrophobic, dimly lit dampness was rampant, so he kept it in check with the many narcotics at his disposal; enough to numb the hysteria but not the low-grade angst that a leading scientist in Hitler’s regime must bear. Ackermann was not a happy man. He was used to unexpected visitors, as the Fiihrer would drop in to check on the work he was doing with the rings. Disturbingly, the Fiihrer took to Ackermann personally and thus the sulky scientist became a confidant to the madman. Based on this, Ackermann knew

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he and his family would soon be dead. Not far behind the madman’s trust came fear of betrayal, paranoia, then torture and execution. His only hope, he knew, was to discover the power source of the rings. Once he had this he would become indispensable, thus insuring his survival for at least another few years. His intellect would either save or doom him. He worked long hours. For now Ackermann had the backing of the Fiihrer and his trust, so he exploited that to the fullest degree. So far he was able to develop a detector that could track the source of the energy to within a few hundred yards. It worked sim­ ilar to an infrared spectrometer device he was using for Messerschmitt Bf-110 night fighters. Squadrons of Bf-110s equipped with this device were in constant flight over North Africa, the Baltics, Norway and Tunisia. They even searched the endless expanse of the Russian front. Surprisingly, using Ackermann’s detector, it was their Japanese allies that had found the next ring. One of their specially equipped Mitsubishi bombers detected a power source on a small island that was part of a chain on which they were constructing an outpost. This bought Ackermann more time. He believed and told the Fiihrer that only the gathering of the rings would unleash their potential might, only through a concentrated matrix. He was startled to hear the click of the heavy iron door opening behind him. Expecting to see Hitler or one of his high-level idiot lackeys, Ackermann jumped out of his skin when he saw the mus­ cular, long-haired man walk through the door. Although he was obviously a foreigner, the man spoke flawlessly in German to him.

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“You have the ring?” the stranger asked. Ackermann backed away. “Who are you? Who let you in?” The man did not seem cautious about his presence. Indeed, he seemed more at ease in the sterility of damp concrete and harsh lighting than Ackermann. This was especially odd, considering that the man was in a tight uniform with a cape. He had read about such super men but had dismissed it as over-imaginative American propaganda. The stranger asked casually, “Where is the ring?” Ackermann said nothing but his eyes gave him away. The stranger went to the wall Ackermann had glanced at, then commenced to punched his way through the six feet of reinforced concrete that encased the rings. It took him the same effort to do this as it would take a normal man to cut through six feet of loose papier m ache-in other words, not long at all. Once in the small room, the stranger walked to the box sitting on a pedestal in the center of the room. He opened the box and, for the first time, the stranger smiled. “A h-you have TWO rings!” The man fetched the rings. To Ackermann it was as if he had wrapped his hands around the throat of his infant daughter-he was paralyzed with fear but wanted to rush the man at the same time. He could feel his heart beating wildly and he barely breathed. The stranger looked at the rings. They began to glow. The stranger sat down on the leather, high-backed chair reserved for the Fiihrer. He jingled the rings in his hands like pocket change as he leveled a stare at Ackermann. “I’m curious: why do you want them?”

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“The rings?” Ackermann nervously replied. “Yes. The rings.” Ackermann stammered, “Their power... ” “Yes-yes-yes. Power,” the stranger interrupted. “But what do you intend to do with them?” Ackermann blurted out the only thing his mind could come up with. “Make the world a better place.” The stranger burst out laughing. Ackermann tried again. “A purer place.” “Pure for who?” the stranger asked. “The Aryan race.” “Are you Aryan?” “Yes.” The stranger pointed to the portrait of the Fiihrer on the concrete wall behind Ackermann. “Is he-y o u r leader-Aryan?” “Yes,” Ackermann replied. “Of course.” “And he is pure?” “Yes.” Perhaps this was a test, thought Ackermann, some sort of warped test of his loyalty. He would try his best to pass it. The stranger paced in front of the scientist. “Do you realize that people in America are saying the same? They want the power to make the world safe as well.” Mustering some bravado, Ackermann said, “But ours is the true cause.” The stranger smiled ingratiatingly. “Yes, I’m convinced that all of you believe in your causes. It find it irrevocably charming. Well, time to be going... ”

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The stranger touched his ring to the others, and Ackermann saw that they were all glowing with power, potential. The scientist could not help but to ask. “How did you do that?” Once again the stranger smiled, but the humor behind it made Ackermann shiver in fear. “Maybe mine is the true cause.” “And what is your cause?” asked Ackermann. The stranger’s evil smile grew. “Why, to make this world a better place,” he said. Then the man simply stood up and strode out of the room. Tim­ idly, Ackermann went to the hallway, where he saw the SS guards’ flesh and uniforms torn apart, their polished boots and helmets marred by fresh blood and entrails. Ackermann had an instant memory of slaughtering chickens on his uncle’s farm in Bavaria during the hot, humid summers. The flash of this led to the incom­ prehensibility of the moment. The slaughter was a harvest slaughter for a feast of good fortune.

CHAPTER

21 T

he top floor of Malvolio’s townhouse had a view of the sky­ scrapers of Gotham. Malvolio, in the darkness of the room, stared at the lights of the surrounding city, majestic to

everyone, including him. The Stargate shimmered in front of him, equally as spectacular as the skyline out the window. The emptiness of the huge townhouse seemed odd in the densely packed city pulsating outside and around him. “The weak in their weak world,” Malvolio thought, “going about their useless, meaningless lives.” How far he had come. How superior he had become. His return was destiny. He knew this now—the power of the rings, the discovery of Irene, the world in turmoil. Everything was divided, in conflict, lost. Malvolio would take full advantage of this: he would be the great unifier. Malvolio opened the book that he took from Scott’s apartment. Stories of the apprehension of common thieves and rogues. Scott

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was weak, so weak that he hid his identity like a coward. He would not be an issue. But then Malvolio thought of their fight among the soldiers. Scott’s power had great potential. Perhaps he could be an ally, a protege? But what would be the point of that? This world did not need two saviors. There could only be one leader. He would need to dispose of Scott. The Stargate shimmered. Malvolio stood before a large mirror, admiring the image before him. The outfit he wore was veiy much like Scott’s with the ability to move gracefully, silently. If Scott’s Green Lantern could be loved by so many, he would be unbelievable to them, stronger than anyone they’d ever seen, any politician or soldier, and certainly stronger than the silliness of Scott’s Green Lantern. Malvolio considered his new look and his destiny. In front of him were the two rings. It would be nothing for him to get the other two from Washington, and the rings from the Pacific island. But what then? The Earth would be his, as Qward was before he was forced to destroy it. He would coalesce his power here on Earth, rule it in the way it was destined, in this dimension, in this time. He would be king. And he would need a queen. Malvolio went to the balcony and took in the breath of cool night air. The not unpleasant honking of cars, the roar of buses and the faint sounds of a clarinet coming from a musician’s apartment was

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pleasing. Malvolio liked this Earth and it would be a pleasure to rule it.

The Flamingo Club was a bad idea-not as good as Scott remembered it, and even in wartime it was too fancy for non-fancy people. Scott looked uncomfortable in his dress uniform, and although Irene looked beautiful in her gown, her hair made up and swept back to reveal the pronounced cheeks, strong jaw, full lips made up to a pout, eyes big with mascara: a beautiful mask. They knew each other from the streets, from walks on the boardwalk, tin-ceiling parlors where they shared slices of greasy pizza and cold ices as they sweated in the humidity of the summer. Scott always found it remarkable that Irene looked so good covered in sweat, hair askew, tendrils whipping in grimy city wind as she rushed to cover a story, the radio engineer always huffing behind her, trying to get the equipment to the news conference, the ball game, the accident, the shooting, the scene of the crime-whatever the action was. Irene loved action. She was not shy about it and it earned the respect of men who would normally be appalled at the sight of a woman at a crime scene, a fire, a morgue, wherever there was news. On top of that she got the story right and caught the humanity of it without resorting to hyperbole or hysteria. Perhaps this was due to a woman’s touch-subtlety. Scott could always tell what stories were hers by the touches that made them less statistical and more about the everyday drama of little victories and losses. Nor was she a voyeur, like so many who covered the streets. She came from the

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streets and was in her way an advocate. But she was also a hell of a reporter. And now that war was here, the biggest story in the world, Irene wanted to be part of it, cover it and experience the conflict first­ hand. But no one-not even Tellum-was willing to send her over­ seas. It was simply too dangerous and too many commanders unfamiliar with her work would not allow her presence. Instead, Tellum steered her toward USO shows, stories about the war at home, industrial output, scrap metal drives, gas rationing, strong women holding up the Home Front for their boys overseas. And she was sick of it. And now, as she and Alan sat in a restaurant where they did not belong, eating a meal they weren’t enjoying, they pretended to be interested in talking about everything except the fact that he was going back to the war and she wasn’t. “So where are you going?” Irene asked. “You know I can’t tell you that,” Scott said. “So what should we talk about? The weather?” Scott loosened his tie. “They say it’s going to rain.” “Knock it off.” More uncomfortable silence. Then Scott looked up at Irene. “Paul’s alive,” he said. Irene stared at Scott. “How do you know? I suppose you can’t tell me, right?” “Right.” “Jesus, Alan. Is he okay?” “I don’t know. I saw his name on a roster. He’s a POW.” “Are you going to go get him?”

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“I’m going to try.” Irene slammed her fork on the table. “I wish I could come along. Not just for the story. I’m just sick of not being able to do anything. Instead I’m watching someone supporting something that eventually effects a soldier somewhere thousands of miles away.” Scott looked admiringly at Irene. “You’re the one person I’d want with me in combat, Irene.” “Don’t feed me any of that. Not now.” “Really. No one thinks as clearly and quickly as you.” Scott leaned forward. “Remember that guy with the ax?” Irene smiled at the memory. “Hatchet-head Harry? He was a real piece of work.” Scott nodded. “He kills his landlord, even chops up the landlord’s poor doggy, and you went right into that basement to get the stoiy and talked him into giving himself up.” Irene shrugged, flattered that Scott remembered that. “Yeah, well, he was crazy and I guess I’m good with crazies.” Alan looked at Irene for a long moment, his face serious. Irene saw that he was considering something; arguing with himself about saying what he was about to say. But then he said it. “Let’s get out of here.” “Fine. Where to?” “My place.” Irene grinned. “Oh yeah?” Again, the serious look filled Alan’s eyes. “I need to show you something.” Irene laughed. “C’m on-you can come up with a line better than that.”

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“Really.” The look in Scott’s face told Irene that this wasn’t a clumsy attempt at getting her in bed, and she was more than a little disap­ pointed. Scott’s apartment appeared just as sparse with Scott living in it as it did while he was overseas. Although he was back home, he barely bothered to unpack, and lived out of his suitcase as if it were a hotel. Irene sat on the couch and watched as Scott solemnly approached the chest in the comer of the room. He hesitated before opening it. He hadn’t even touched the chest since he’d returned to Gotham. Scott knew that by revealing this secret to Irene they would be tied together forever, truly for better or worse. His hands traced the lock on the trunk. Then, his mind made up, he began opening But before he could, Irene approached him from behind and put her hand on his shoulders. He stopped. “Alan... ” Scott turned to Irene. “You’re the only person I’ve ever tmsted. You’re the only woman I’ve loved.” “Alan... ” “I’m heading to the Pacific, Irene. There’s going to be an invasion and I’m going to try and get Paul. But there’s more... ” “What?” “Either I’m not coming back or I’m coming back as someone dif­ ferent. Alan Scott won’t exist anymore. So this is goodbye.” Scott kissed her chastely. She shook her head. “I don’t believe it.” Scott kissed her again, passionately.

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And then she saw it in his eyes, the infinite sadness and longing, and for once she didn’t have the words or wisecracks to shield her, and they were two alone and for the moment one, in a love that can’t survive their lives, the war, their needs. But they had finally run out of words and things to argue about, so all was left to lie together, touch, kiss and make love to each other, no words but only softness, their first, last, and only true night.

Scott awoke to the purity of streaming morning sunlight across the bed, and the acute awareness of Irene against him, asleep and amazing in her nakedness, the strength of her legs against the tautness of stomach and voluptuous softness of her breasts, an image of feminine form usually hidden under pants and loose blouses, heavy coats and sensible shoes. Her long brown hair, for once not wrapped in a tight knot or hidden under a scarf or hat, fell across her face, covering the small scar on her lip from when she had fallen against a nail in a stairwell when she was four. The smell of her hair and skin was making him drunk with need for her. As he looked at her he wanted to know her forever, and missed knowing her before they had met. He wanted to begin and end with her, lie in bed for days making love and eating, no war, no deadlines, no bridges, no lanterns, no rings. She stirred slightly and her nakedness against his pushed any thoughts out of his mind except one. So he kissed her hungrily and she awakening to the moment, responded just as deeply. Using all the will he could muster, he broke away from her. “Irene —I have to show you something. It’s important.” “Can’t it wait?”

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“No, it really can’t.” Scott kissed her, then jumped from the bed and ran to his living room. Once again he stood before the chest that contained his other life and identity. Swinging it open, he froze at what he saw. His Green Lantern uniform was missing. And Scott knew who was responsible, and spoke his name. “Malvolio.”

Irene laid amidst the jumble of sheets, one leg kicked out, her mind replaying the night before, enjoying the apartment’s cool air against her exposed skin, the pleasant melody of morning traffic drifting up from the city streets below. For one of the few times in her life, she was completely in the moment, not worried about a future deadline nor dwelling on a past stoiy or working an angle, but loving this one moment like the sweetest candy she’d ever had. She was surprised at Alan’s tenderness and attention in bed. She was the aggressor, fairly attacking him with lips, hands and body. As she climbed on him and they made love they told each other age-old stories with their eyes. And now with the sun, the sheets, the cherished feeling inside her and this most recent memory, she felt the state of bliss. When Alan walked into the room she could see that the moment was in jeopardy. “What is it Alan?” Alan looked troubled. “You have to go.” Irene, confused and suddenly modest, pulled the bed sheet against her breasts. “What’s wrong?” “You just have to go. I’m sorry.”

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“Alan... ” “Please! I just need you to go!” he snapped. Irene turned back into her hard, cynical self, a sideways grin on her face. “Okay, fine,” she said. She climbed out of bed and unembarrassed by her nakedness, picked up her scattered panties and bra and began dressing, with more than a little anger in her gestures. Scott, realizing that she was getting the wrong message, tried explaining, but did not know where to begin. “Iren e-I-y o u ’ll just have to leave. I’ll call you later at work.” “Don’t bother. We had our wartime fling-consider it done. I guess we were both too self-centered to carry this off. I just thought it might have lasted a little longer than the next morning.” Scott went to Irene and cupped her face with his hands and kissed her. He could see the trouble in her eyes—she wanted to cry but they both knew that she would never let this happen. She was simply too tough. Scott wanted to tell her everything, sit her down and pour his heart out about becoming the Green Lantern, the visions, Malvolio’s power, but he’d told her too much already about the invasion and Paul. He did not want to put her in any more danger. So he could say nothing. “I’ll call you at work.” Disappointed, Irene pulled herself away from Scott and walked out the door.

It was dawn by the time Scott was outside the town house in the drizzling, misty rain. His following Malvolio from his hotel to here

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confirmed to Scott that he he’d been had: Malvolio was no stranger to Gotham. He lingered outside the townhouse, trying to get up the courage to do what he had to do. The house was foreboding in the grayness of the day. The opulence of the place felt oppressive, as if warning Scott. Scott saw, as he mounted the steps, that the huge front door of the place was slightly open. Pushing his way in, the dimness of the huge space made him more wary. He looked down to his ring—it was without any power at all, basically an ornament at this point. Scott called out for Malvolio. The sound of his voice flattened in the dead space of heavy carpet and furniture. The interior appeared dead, as if no one had lived in it for months. Scott found drinks sitting on a table, the glasses empty as if their contents had evaporated over days or weeks. Spent cigarettes sitting in a standing ashtray were burned down, the long lines of ash still in place as the cigarettes burned themselves out. To top it off, the place smelled like death. Literally. It brought back instant memories of battlefields, lost terrain, braveiy and murder. It was an all-too familiar feeling for Scott, and the return of it made him afraid, wary and on guard. He looked down at his ring again—it was still dead. Finding the charge would gain him the power to stop Malvolio. He knew now that Malvolio would need to be controlled, and he was the only person remotely capable of doing so. As he moved into the darkness of the house it became almost impenetrable to light. None of the lamps worked, so he felt his way

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through, tripping on knocked-over furniture, slipping on scattered books and torn paintings, groping forward at each step. At the top of the stairs, fog seemed to cover everything. A radiator steam pipe had broken and the hallway was dripping with condens­ ation from the steam. The hallway was hot like a sauna. The smell here was much stronger, almost unbearable. Scott knew it as the sweet odor of rotting flesh, made much worse by the stifling humidity. He could hear music coming from behind the door up ahead. It was a woman’s sad, lilting voice. He made his way down the hall. The beautiful gilt wallpaper was warped by the water and peeling down, and the heavy carpet squished under his feet. His foot kicked something as he moved forward. Reaching down to pick it up, he saw that was a child’s stuffed bear, obviously well­ loved. That it was sitting discarded made Scott’s heart race and he could feel his scalp and fingers tingling, as if he were being slowly electrocuted. Damp with sweat, Scott wiped his face. At the end of the hallway was a large door. Scott saw light coming from under it. In the total darkness of the hallway, the light appeared blindingly strong, unnatural in its brilliance as it bled from the frame and keyhole of the door. The music was louder here, and Scott could hear from the pops and scratches that the music was a record playing. Ahead of him, Scott could see the splintered remains of a mahogany chair. He picked up a leg, the heft of it giving him some comfort. If wood could resist his power, hopefully it would give him some advantage over Malvolio.

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The point of the leg out in front of him, Scott pushed the heavy door open. The room was a library and was high enough that a walkway wrapped the space, a small ladder on wheels attached to it. Hundreds of books were on the floor, scattered and swollen from the steam heat. Rats darted about in the comers, no longer afraid and tempted by what lay in the room, the allure of an abundance of dead flesh. The music was loud here, the woman’s sweet sad voice playing at full volume. But it was what was in the center of the room that transfixed Scott. In front of him, in the center of the room, was an enormous globe. Around it, in a horrible heap, were the remains of what looked to be a family. They were long dead, bodies bloated and stiffened by rigor mortis, their skin green. Thousands of flies were feasting on their flesh, their eyes replaced by pools of squirming maggots, more spilling from their gaping mouths, entangled in their hair. Scott could see two adults—a mother and father apparently, and five children. The youngest was a baby and the oldest appeared to be in his or her early teens. Scott could only tell this by their relative size and their clothes. Otherwise, the bodies were virtually unrecog­ nizable as human. Their flesh was sloughing away, aided by the insects and vermin feasting on them. And behind this hellish scene was the source of the brilliant light: a shimmering mass of energy hovered in the comer, a magician’s illusion except that Scott could feel the energy emanating from it, a kind of electrical whirlpool, like the coming of a vicious storm or twister.

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Perhaps it was the energy that drew the creatures here, along with the fetid air. Strangely, a fire was roaring in the huge fireplace at the end of the room, stoked with many logs. It was, to Scott, a vision of hell. Holding his chair leg, he felt swallowed in the malignancy of this room. Yet he was drawn in, forced to find Malvolio and confront him. Scott knew that Malvolio was in Sicily for him, and now in Gotham, and only he could con­ front him and settle whatever business the bastard wanted. Scott moved edgeways around the room, away from the writhing vermin feeding on the corpses, to the strange shimmering light. He could not look directly into it for its brightness. As he moved to it he saw one more object: a statue, beautifully rendered, of a woman. As he approached it from behind, he could see that the detail was exquisite: it was as if the stone could come alive. It was of a woman, a life-size rendering in a dress from what appeared to be the seventeenth century. As Scott made his way around to the front, he saw the face. It was Irene. But then it wasn’t. The eyes were blank, dead, soul­ less, but every other detail, the hair, face, body, was all Irene. Scott reached out with his hand to see if it was real. “Please don’t touch it.” A voice from the shadows—deep, forebod­ ing, gloating—called out to him. Scott whipped around—Malvolio was sitting in a soft leather chair. He smiled at Scott like a parent who had been watching his child take first steps. Scott saw that Malvolio was wearing his costume. The two stared at each other for a moment. Then Malvolio reached

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over to the record player and switched it off. Billie Holiday’s voice dragged to a stop. “I find her voice to be enchanting. Don’t you?” Scott ignored the chit-chat. “Why did you kill those people?” “They weren’t relevant.” “You are a murdering bastard.” “Come now, Alan. They are chattel. What did their lives matter in the grand scheme? You allow wars, but you rage against me for pushing aside the unimportant? How hypocritical this future is. In my day there were those that mattered, and the rest. We did not confuse them and in that way kingdoms were built and maintained. “During the plague I saw this every day on the streets. I saw children dying with no one stopping to even offer them bread or water. But were those people monsters?” “This is reality, Scott. It makes the strong stronger and rids us of the undeserving. Weep for them and you must weep for the enemy soldiers. But you kill for a greater good, correct? As do I, Scott, as do I.” “I don’t kill unnecessarily.” Malvolio smiled indulgently. “Of course you don’t. Would it help if I told you they were Nazis? Or Germans? Or against your govern­ ment? Or against the greater good of mankind? Would that assuage your emotion? “I’ve examined this world. It’s gotten weaker. You have so much more now, but it’s made you soft. Leadership will unleash the potential, and I will provide it. The power your armies seek to har­ ness will only lead to your own destruction.”

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“Even you have no idea how to unleash the ring’s potential. Now it is mine, and I alone have the will to control it.” “Why you?” “Who better? Your generals? That pathetic Hitler fellow? You, Alan Scott? If you don’t know the potential of this object, what makes you think anyone else would? It’s destiny Alan. Irene and I were brought together to lead it.” “What does Irene have to do with this?” Malvolio turned to the statue. “She’s my queen.” “Have you told her that?” “In due time.” “She’s not the purest damsel on the block, Mai. I can live with that. Maybe I can even love her for it. But you can’t.” Malvolio glowered a moment, the pain of what he saw flashing into his consciousness. Then he turned to Scott and smiled. “She’s allowed her mistakes. Granted, you are a big one. But if she is drawn to the power of the flame, she will find me completely irresistible.” “Yeah, especially if you bring her in here.” “Point well taken. I’ll need to do some tidying up.” “You’re serious, aren’t you, you crazy son of bitch.” “I have clarity of vision, Scott.” “I’m not allowing it.” “How so? With what you did in Sicily? That seemed to be a fluke—your ring is quite passive. And how are you to recharge without your lantern? Are you going to stab me with that stake?” “After I beat you with it.” Malvolio spun the globe and stepped toward Scott.

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“We’ll just see about that.” Scott lunged forward with the stake. Malvolio easily blocked it and with a flick of his hand threw Scott against the bookcases. The stake flew from Scott’s hand and he scrabbled crablike to get to it. Malvolio actually waited for Scott to get closer before bringing his boot down on Scott’s arm, crushing it. Like so many times before, Scott felt the enormous shock of brutal, unrelenting pain. Malvolio lifted his boot off Scott’s arm. When he pulled back, Scott could see that the bone beneath the flesh was literally disintegrated, and only the skin and muscle kept his now-useless hand connected to his arm. He rolled and lunged toward the lantern. As if snatching a rag doll, Malvolio grabbed Scott in the air by the calf and swung him around. Scott flew into the air and landed on soft tissue. He realized that his was lying amidst the corpses of the family. He screamed in horror and slid from the putrid pile to the floor. Covered in gore, Scott rolled away and moved toward the fire­ place, towards a stack of logs sitting in a galvanized metal box. Malvolio walked behind him, laughing quietly. “More wood, Alan? Let me assist you.” He kicked Scott into the box of wood, knocking it over and scattering the logs. Almost unconscious, Scott’s hands grasped a small hatchet that was among the fireplace tools. As Malvolio closed in, Scott flung wood chips into Malvolio's eyes, blinding and sending him into a rage. Malvolio was more inconvenienced than injured, but it bought Scott enough time to scramble behind Malvolio and grab the hand axe.

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Malvolio rubbed his eyes and blinked the wood chips out of them. He saw the axe in Scott’s hand. “Ah Alan, that will do you no good. It’s wood that we’re powerless against, remember?” Malvolio turned, but Scott was not trying to attack him with the axe. Rather, he was chopping at the leg of the table holding the enormous globe. Scott saw that he had one more chance and swung the hatchet mightily at the leg. The weight of the enormous globe on the weakened leg caused it to snap, and the globe tumbled toward Malvolio. Before he could get out the way, the globe knocked him into the roaring inferno of the fireplace. Scott, nursing his destroyed arm, stared at the globe as smoke and flame seeped from around it. Then he scrabbled towards the wooden stake. It was his only chance. But before Scott could get to it, Malvolio blasted the enormous globe from the fireplace, sending it sailing through the air, where it shattered on the wall above Scott’s head, sending him tumbling. Body covered with fire, teeth bared not with pain but rage, Mal­ volio moved in quick strides to Scott and grabbed at Scott’s hand, clasping his fist and squeezing it agonizingly tight, then lifting him in the air by it, breaking the bones in Scott’s fingers and hand as he dangled. His other arm destroyed, Scott could only suffer through the pain. Malvolio sneered as Scott writhed. “Is this your best attempt? At her? At me? You are lost to this world. You are nothing.” He let Scott drop to the ground. “Be assured that I will be quick

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in killing you, Alan Scott, for you have become a waste of my time. But this belongs to me... ” Malvolio bent down to rip the ring from Scott’s crushed finger. But before he could get it, in a last act of desperation, Scott flung himself through the Stargate.

CHAPTER

22 I

rene wasn’t one to normally wait, but she wanted her phone to ring. She wanted to hear from Scott, if not to rip into him for his behavior this morning, but also for the heart of it: his for­

giveness and her accepting it. She wasn’t used to chasing; so many men tried to make her their own, change her, mold her into what they wanted in a woman. She never accepted any of it because she never saw the point in a man, or love for that matter. The truth is, she loved herself and what she did and no man could augment that. But with Scott she shared something deeper—the common back­ ground of poverty and their enormous drives to succeed. More important, she respected him, something that very few men deserved. A tap on the should startled her. She turned to see Carlos, the teenage news clerk, nervously standing behind her. “Miss Miller? I’m sorry to bother you.” Irene blinked at him, confused. Carlos looked down. “Are you okay? You were just sitting there staring at the telephone.”

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Irene face flushed red with embarrassment and anger. “What is it Carlos?” The kid held out an envelope for her. “This came for you.” Irene took it and dismissed the boy. She saw that her name was etched elegantly in ink on the envelope, in a calligrapher’s hand. The note inside was on wonderfully delicate parchment. Dearest Irene, It would be my honor to have your presence at dinner tonight at my home, to repay the debt o f gratitude fo r your kind hospitality during my stay in your beautiful city. I f your grace shall be bestowed upon me, I shall expect you tonight at seven o’clock. Please be aware that my intentions are nothing but honorable. Your humble servant, Malvolio “Humble servant.” He was laying it on thick. But he’d be a good tonic after the arrogance of Alan Scott. But she also knew that Malvolio had something to do with Alan’s return to Gotham, and the invasion he’d told her about. If she could get more information from Malvolio, she might get the story without Scott. And who was Alan anyway to prevent her from doing her job? If Malvolio told her more, she could run with it. “Screw Alan Scott.” Irene thought. “On second thought, doing so was the biggest mistake I’ve made in recent memory.” Dinner with Malvolio was looking to be a good idea. As for being alone with this ^English fop, she figured she could handle herself.

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She stared at the silent phone again. Damn him! Irene jumped to her feet and strode to John Tellum’s office, blowing right by Sharon (“Miss Miller, do you have an appoint­ ment?”) and bursting through the door. Tellum was in a meeting with a couple stuffed-shirts—they could have been board members or golfing buddies-and Irene ignored them like furniture. “John, I’ve got a story.” “Good for you.” “It’s big.” Tellum could see that she meant business. A nod to the cronies and they quietly left their cigars and scotch glasses and stepped out of the office. John sat in his enormous leather chair. Irene stood standing. “What’s the story, Irene?” “I know the next invasion in the Pacific.” Tellum snorted. “Everyone who can look at a map knows that.” “I have the time and place.” “How do you have that?” Irene crossed her arms. “That's my business.” “Okay, what’s the time and place?” “My business, too.” Tellum leaned back in his leather chair, for once losing his good humor. “Well, what the hell do you want?” “I want that overseas assignment,” Irene said quickly. “Send me with Felix and that new radio transmitter. I’ll do the story live, as it’s happening.”

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“I can’t send you out there! For a girl to be in harm's way, our audience would never stand for it!” “For Christ’s sake John, get with it! This is the twentieth century. I’m the best reporter you have but you waste me on garden stories and bond drives. You get me the engineer and the gear, and I’ll get there and you’ll have the story of the century.” Tellum tried rubbing his temples to chase his headache away. “Let me think about it.” “Think fast,” she said to Tellum. “The operation’s about to begin. I can be on a plane tomorrow.” “Jeez, Irene, give me a break—you know I can’t make decisions under pressure!” Irene checked her watch. “I gotta go. Dinner plans.” “Alan?” “No. Business.” Irene headed out the door. “I’m your best reporter about to give you your biggest story. I’m booking that flight John—don’t let me down!”

CHAPTER

23 A

lan Scott lay on his back, once again looking up at the sky. But this sky was unlike any he’d ever seen or imagined. It was lit in a dusky orange twilight and he could see orbiting

moons and distant suns. Nothing was where he expected it to be, and it would have been spectacularly beautiful to him if he weren’t in complete and utter agony. He lay in the orange dust, writhing. As his head turned about, he caught glimpses of sharp rocky peaks streaked in the colors of exposed mineral but devoid of any vegetation. There was no wind and only the muffled sound of his body against the powdery dust. It felt as if his body had been wrenched inside-out. The difficulty breathing and the pressure against every part of him made him feel as if he were simultaneously being torn apart and crushed. The ring was dead on Scott’s finger, uncharged once again, nothing more than a trinket. He lay there in this state for what seemed to be eons and he kept

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expecting to lose consciousness, to die, but it continued. Either time had slowed or he was being kept alive by something or someone. He could see the horizon, which did not look right. Then he realized that wherever he was it was small, with the horizon bending more sharply than Earth. It was too much to take. Once again Alan Scott wished for death. He closed his eyes and prayed for it. “Alan.” He could feel his blood chilling as it slowed through the imploding veins. “Alan.” A woman’s face. Not Irene. Not anyone he’d known, but he knew her. She smiled. “Alan.” Alan sat up in his dream. Death was near now, but he had something to say. “You’re my mother.” “Yes.” “Where are you?” “I’m back home. Do you want to come home?” “Yes. Yes I do very much.” The beautiful woman looked sad. “But you can’t. You have work to do.” “Work? The woman gestured. Scott turned his head to see the image of a Green Lantern in the dust. A mirage?

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“You are that and it is you. Only by becoming one with it will you fulfill your destiny. And only then will you come home.” The woman, his life-giver, the only thing he loved without condition, faded to him and he panicked. “W ait!” Scott looked at the lantern in the dust. He saw it for what it was to him, and he reached for it with all his might. The ring was inches away when he saw someone walking toward him, the dust kicking up as if underwater, floating like sediment in the sea. He, too, wore the costume of the Green Lantern, but the style was different. Perhaps Malvolio sent this Green Lantern to finish off Scott. The ring touched the lantern. The lantern disappeared, yet the ring glowed. And at that moment Alan Scott died. The young and handsome man stood before Scott, arms crossed and smiling. “Welcome to Planet Hell.” Alan Scott, the Green Lantern got to his feet, ready to take on the stranger, his ring glowing fiercely, his wounds mysteriously healed. The other Green Lantern took a step back and brought up his hands, palms out. “Now wait just a sec... ” But his words were too late: Scott slammed the other Green Lantern with all his might. Even in the dense gravity, the force of the blow caused the other Green Lantern to tumble through what little air there was, eventually slamming against a distant ridge. When he shook his head, he saw that Alan Scott was miles away, a mere speck on the planet’s landscape.

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But he could see the dot getting bigger, coming at him with amazing velocity. “Now hold on... ” Too late again. The other Green Lantern’s was slammed through the rock and mineral from the force of Scott’s body blow, then, having been blasted out the other side of the talus, continued to tumble helplessly through open air, finally smashing into a dry lakebed, digging a deep trough into the hard landscape. The other Green Lantern pulled himself up. “For ciyin’ out loud...” Scott was focused on his enemy now, stopping him, and getting on to Malvolio. As he charged forward he saw that the stranger was putting up some sort of w a ll-it was coming out straight from the desert, blocking his path. Then Scott’s imagination took hold—he saw a needle, a dart focused to the smallest tip but flaring to dense matter, and that was what he becam e-his arm outstretched, the force around him concentrated to the subatomic level to pierce this shield. He picked up speed as he flew towards the wall, now a bubble surrounding the stranger. Both men thought the same thing: “It is the strength o f his will against m ine.” The power of Scott’s dart cut through the other Green Lantern’s shield like a w hite-hot ice pick through butter. It barely slowed Scott down. Scott landed and tumbled in front of the other Green Lantern and almost instantly his hand was around his neck, squeezing. “Who are you?”

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Choking sounds from the other Green Lantern. Gasping. Scott squeezed harder. “Did Malvolio send you?” The other Green Lantern could barely shake his head no. But Scott did not let up. “I don’t believe you. And after I’m done with you I’m going to find Malvolio, so you might as well tell me know who you are.” “His name is Hal Jordan.” Scott whirled around. Before him stood a small ancient man with an enormous head. He was not deformed, but rather appeared not to be human. The tiny man wore a uniform of material that Scott had never seen—it almost appeared to be alive with energy. The little man spoke again. “His name is Hal Jordan and he was sent to help. Release him.” Scott was aware that the little m an’s lips did not move. This message was given to him, not through language, but with instant understanding. Scott instantly knew who Hal Jordan was and what his purpose was and released him. “Sorry, Hal.” Jordan was shaken and stayed kneeling, trying to catch his breath. “Hell of a thing you did there. When I saw you lying there I thought you were a goner.” “I did, too.” “Then, when you started stomping me I thought I was a goner.” “Again, sorry.” Scott looked at the glowing ring on his finger. Jordan turned to the little man. “So how did his ring charge?”

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“The power was within him. He had never tapped the full use of the ring’s power until now.” Scott understood. “So the power was always there, but I could not see it.” “Yes.” Scott turned back to Jordan. “So where the hell are we? And who the hell is he?” “Like I said before you started beating on me, you’re on Planet Hell. It’s being made habitable by the Qwardians but, as you can see, it’s not quite to move-in condition yet.” “Is he a Qwardian?” “No.” “But this is their planet?” “It was, until Malvolio destroyed it. Follow me.” Jordan took off, flying above the planet. The simplicity of Jordan’s act inspired Scott to mimic it, and doing so he found him self gliding and swimming through the space of the alien atmosphere as well, behind his fellow Green Lantern. As they flew, Scott could see the remains of w hat was once a beautiful, ethereal city. It had been built directly into the rocky terrain, its buildings made colorful by inlaid minerals, spires of cobalt and other exotic metals. But now the city was covered in dust, the buildings burnt-out and collapsed. Yet everything still had a resonant beauty, as if retaining the memory of its former greatness. The Green Lanterns landed and walked down the deserted avenues between the ruins. Above them, the twilight suns burned weakly, giving the dead city a melancholy cast.

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Jordan walked ahead, as if giving a tour. “This was to be the sanctuary of the Qwardians dissidents.” Scott was clueless. “Oh.” “Okay, let’s start over. I’m part of the Green Lantern Corps. We’re scattered all over the universe.” “Can I smoke on this planet?” “If you got ‘em. But pay attention, okay? This story’s hard enough to keep straight, let alone tell. There was this evil Green Lantern named Sinestro. He had too much power—literally. The Qwardians were desperate and listened to his lies. And gave him power over them. “Sinestro eventually was term inated.” “’Terminated’?”’ “Died." “Ah.”

.

“And the Qwardians, trapped in their own anti-m atter un i­ verse...” “A nti-m atter?”’ “Look, don’t worry about that part. Let’s ju st say that they’re not over here and w e’re over here, and they w ant to get rid of us over here.” “W hy?” “It’s a universal desire, I suppose.” “Guess so -ju st like w hat the Nazis are up to.” “Exactly. So to cause harm to our universe, they spread these replicas of Sinestro’s ring throughout time and space, including Earth.” “Those rings that are hidden all over Earth... ”

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“Yes they are.” “What do they do?” “If anyone puts one on they will become a Sleeper. Sleepers are bent on destroying whatever world they’re in, and the ring gives them the power to do so. But in order to work, the rings have to be gathered together and activated by someone with the ability. Such as a Green Lantern.” “Like Malvolio.” “Right. My guess is that he’s scouring the Earth for those rings. Once he’s got them, there w on’t be any stopping him or his army.” “Those Qwardians must really hate us.” “They are not fond o f anyone. But there are good Qwardi­ ans—rebels, dissenters. Those, like the one you met, used the same trans-dim ensional technology... ” “’Trans... ’” “Look, I’m not Einstein, I can only tell you w hat they told me. The Qwardians are over there. They figured out a w ay to get the rings over here, literally planting the rings as seeds o f destruction. But the Qwardian dissidents, who are all about peace and har­ mony, used the same technology to escape their dimension and get to ours. Got it?” A minute or so passed as Scott sat deep in thought. Finally he caught up. “Yup. So the bad news is that we’ve got these rings around. But the good news is w e’ve got the Qwardian dissidents... ” “-and the Green Lantern Corps... ” “-to help gather the rings.” “That about sums it up.”

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Scott looked around. “So this was going to be the Qwardian dissidents’ new home?” Sadness from Jordan. “Yeah.” “W hat the hell happened?” “Malvolio happened. They were terra-forming... ” A blank look from Scott. “Making this planet habitable. And they built a series of Stargates, or transformer bridges to bring more of dissidents over when the planet was fit for living. That’s when Malvolio showed up. The dissidents’ transformer gates inadvertently released Malvolio from his limbo. Worse yet, the gates bypassed any warning buoys, so they had no idea who Malvolio was or what he’d done. The dissidents are a trusting lot, so they figure he’s a Green Lantern who can help them and they essentially make him their savior. They think that if there’s anyone that can protect him from their Qwardian persecutors, it’s him.” “Bad move.” “Indeed. W hat they didn’t know about was his past and how he got all the way out here. And where does he w ant to go?” “Earth.” “Right. He sees all these transform er bridges everywhere, so he tells the Qwardian dissidents to build him one back to Earth. They don’t like this idea and th a t’s when they get a taste of who he really is. With the power they gave him, Malvolio destroys this place and kills most of the Qwardians.” “Bastard.” “You know the Qwardian you met? Malvolio made him enable

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the transform er bridge to take him to Earth. Malvolio told him it was the only way he could save w hat’s left of his people.” “So where are they?” “Malvolio killed them anyway. From w hat I’ve seen, he sees any life the way humans see germs. It’s nothing for us to kill some germs, or millions of ‘em, to keep us healthy. That’s ju st the way things go. That’s pretty much how Malvolio sees all other life.” “Which would make some sense if we were one-celled non­ thinkers, and he was so far above us.” “Right—he’s not. He’s ju st a arrogant fool from the seventeenth century with lots of issues. But he does have a tremendous amount of pow er-m ore than any Green Lantern has had.” “So w hat is this Corps?” “Thousands of us throughout the universe. We’ve been given the power to balance out the malignance the Qwardians unleashed. It’s been a running battle for quite some time now .” “So I’m part of this Corps?” “Not exactly. You do have the power, but you got it accident­ ally. And now you’ve got to use it.” Scott threw his cigarette butt into the orange sand and squished it out with his foot. “I haven’t been exactly gangbusters with it, to tell you the truth...” “Well here’s the thing, the power is the pow er-you don’t have any more or less than me or any other Corps member. The trick is tapping into it. I mean, look at w hat you did to me back th e re -d o n ’t tell me you don’t have the juice.” “Maybe so. Maybe I do. But controlling it... ”

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“Yes, th at’s the issue. That 1 can’t help you with—you ju st gotta find your way to that yourself. But you better h u n y -M alv o lio ’s getting ready to do a lot of damage back on Earth. He’s building a Sleeper army.”

“An army? So I gotta stop him and his army?” Jordan smiled. “Sure. It’s ju st the hum an race in your hands.” “But I’m a guy who stops bank robbers! That’s like asking a minor leaguer to step up to the plate against Dizzy Dean and hit a home run!”

“Malvolio’s no Dizzy Dean. And you’re no bush leaguer.” “Why don’t you help me?” “It’s not my destiny, Alan. It’s not even my timeline.” “But what about Malvolio? He’s from the goddam Middle Ages. And what time are you from?” “For you, I’m from the future. I k n o w -it’s confusing, but part of the effect of the transformer gates is that time becomes elastic. We are so far from Earth that travel even at the speed of light would take thousands of years. The gates allow us to travel these distances also allow us to travel through time. That’s how I can meet you here and Malvolio can show up in the 1940s. I can’t leave h e re -th a t’s why you sent me here to talk to you.” “I sent you here?”

“The future you. The future you is busy as well, so I’ve got Sleeper trouble here that I have to deal with.” “Why would a future me send you here to talk to me?” “Because you’d know you’d need the help, I suppose. The future you told me to tell you about the dream.” “W hat dream?”

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“About your mother. He said to believe in it. If you don’t, the future you w on’t exist, nor will I.” Scott let the cigarette drop from his fingers. He was over­ whelmed to speechlessness. “Who are you to me?” Jordan smiled again. “Let’s ju st say we’re close. And if we survive this Sleepers stuff to meet again, it’ll be because of you. If you don’t stop them back home, no one will be around to stop them here. We’re all part of a chain th at’s only as strong as its weakest link.” “And that would be me.” Jordan got to his feet and walked into the ruin. “I don’t think so, Alan. I know you pretty well. Keep in mind that your ring w asn’t glowing when you attacked me. There was no lantern. Look at your ring now.” It shone like the north star. Jordan grinned. “You did that.” Scott looked at Hal. “I recharged it?” Hal shook his head. “No—you found and refined its full potential. The power was there all a lo n g -it w asn’t glowing because you couldn’t get to it. And now you have. But ju st in case you need it...” Hal held up Scott’s Green Lantern, once again in pristine con­ dition. Knowing better than to ask how it came back to him, Scott took it with simple gratitude. The shimmering Stargate was before Hal and Scott. Hal turned to Alan Scott and put a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was strange—a reverse o f a father-son relationship.

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Scott smiled, but there was some concern in his eyes, knowing w hat Alan Scott was about to go through. “Good luck Alan, and Godspeed.” Scott nodded to Hal, then stepped through the Stargate.

CHAPTER

24 I

rene felt a shiver as she knocked on the door of the elegant townhouse. Something in her intuition, sharpened by years of a reporter’s instinct -warned her that something bad was about

to happen. But the feeling was dispelled when Malvolio opened the door. He was dressed in handsome white suit, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He smiled warmly at the sight of her. “Irene, welcome. Come in.” As she entered, her concern turned to anxiety that she had not dressed well enough. The entire house was lit with beautiful candles, giving the space a warmth and comfort despite its grand size. Gar­ lands of fresh roses, red, white and yellow, set in vases throughout each room. The sight was enchanting. “What a marvelous house.” Malvolio, shrugged, embarrassed. “Friends have lent it to m e -I’m lucky for their kindness. I must

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admit the place was in great disarray, but I tidied up on the advice of Alan.” Malvolio smiled at this. The dinner of fresh fish and Cornish hen was abundant Irene noticed that Malvolio barely touched his meal. The cheriy wood dining table was huge, but Malvolio had arranged the settings so that they sat next to each other. The rest of the table, room and house felt superfluous as they dined together. Irene noticed that Malvolio had brought the food out from the kitchen himself. “The meal is delicious, Mai. Did you cook this?” “Yes. It really is hard to get good help nowadays.” Irene, who took most of her meals at hot dog stands and automats, smiled and nodded in agreement. “Yes. I can imagine,” she said. “And the freshness of the food is fantastic-where did you get it?” “I caught it myself.” Irene smiled at what she thought was Malvolio’s attempt at humor. “Really? In the reservoir at the park?” “No,” Malvolio replied. “In the Pyrenees. Just today.” Irene was confused but she decided to let it pass. As Malvolio poured more wine for her and himself, she started in. “So what do you know about the invasion?” Without missing a beat, Malvolio said, “What would you like to know?” Irene was surprised at this. She was so used to caginess, anger or outright denial that she stammered, at a loss. “Well, uh... ” Malvolio interrupted. “It’s going to be part of a larger invasion

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of some island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. I can’t keep them all straight. If I remember I’ll let you know.” Irene frowned. “You don’t have to be such a smug bastard about it,” she thought to herself, “just tell me you don’t know or won’t tell me.” Malvolio continued. “I can picture it and getting there, but to tell you the truth I seldom bother with maps. I simply take flight and, traveling through the skies, look down and locate it by sight.” “Veiy funny,” Irene said, fuming. “If you like, I can take you there.” Irene had had enough of Malvolio’s lopsided jokes-she felt as is he were mocking her. She put her napkin on her plate. “It’s late and I’ve had a long day. Thank you for the wonderful dinner.” Malvolio stood up. “Before you g o -I wish to show you some­ thing.”

Irene followed Malvolio through the library door. The room was restored to its original form, the globe back in place. Irene walked around the candlelit room, amazed at the beauty of it. She could see that something was draped with a heavy black cloth, and the back of a statue. “I’d always known there were rooms like this in Gotham,” she said, “but I never got a chance to walk into one.” She went to the Louis XIV desk and ran her hand along the pol­ ished wood. She stopped when she saw the map sitting on it. It was marked top secret and she could see that it showed the location of

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the main invasion, along with the island that Malvolio would be going to. She turned to see that Malvolio was fetching something from a cabinet. Quickly she memorized the latitude and longitude coordinates from the map of the islands. The name stuck out to her: Iwo Jima. Malvolio stood near a life-size statue of a woman. “Irene, come here please.” As Irene walked toward the statue, she saw that for the first time it had her face. She was stunned by the sight. Her first instinct was to laugh-it seemed like an elaborate joke, a rich man’s prank. Then, realizing it wasn’t, she began to get scared. When she turned, Malvolio was standing close, within range of a kiss. She wanted to step back but resisted doing so. He smiled coyly. “It’s the best my feeble imagination could con­ jure.” “M al-w hat is this?” “Irene-please accept this gift as a symbol of my deep affection for you. I’m certain that our fates were meant to be entwined.” Irene wanted to laugh at Malvolio’s suddenly ham-handed beha­ vior, but something told her that that would be a very bad thing to do. Malvolio stammered. “My love for you is... limitless. Like the stars. And I would give up everything for you.” “You would?” “Yes.” He gently took her arm and they walked before the clothcovered object. Malvolio pulled the cloth away to reveal the shim­ mering Stargate.

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Irene shielded her eyes from the Stargate, more afraid and strug­ gling not to show it. “M al-w hat is this?” Malvolio pulled his Green Lantern’s ring from his pocket and held it up for her to see. Irene’s eyes opened wide. “You’re the Green Lantern?” “I’m one of them.” “There’s more than one?” Irene asked. “Yes, but I am the most powerful.” Malvolio held up the ring. “Irene, this is the source of my power. If I toss it through this Stargate, it will seal behind itself and I’ll be left to remain here on Earth forever. I’ll return to being a mere human. But I’d be willing to do this for you.” Irene shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I love you Irene.” “But you don’t know me.” Malvolio laughed. “I’ve known you forever! You brought me here, you will marry me, we will live our lives together and upon our deaths our souls will be united forever! You may think you have a choice in this, but you truly don’t. Neither of us do. It’s destiny.” Malvolio dropped to one knee. He held the green ring in his hand before the Stargate, ready to push it through. “I will give up infinite power to be with you. All you must do is recognize our love.” Irene slowly shook her head. “No.” For a moment, Malvolio looked as if he was about to cry. Irene spoke. “I don’t understand what all of this is about... but I’m in love with someone else. I’m in love with Alan. Alan Scott.”

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Malvolio’s pitiful expression twisted into one of rage. Before she could react, Malvolio was on his feet and had Irene by her hair with one hand and her throat by the other. Instantly she felt her breath cut off and tunnel vision from lack of blood to her brain. Malvolio’s face was ugly. The premonition she had at the door came back to her-she hated being right. Malvolio growled, his voice low. “You would have him over me? Don’t you see his worthlessness?” Irene grabbed at Malvolio’s arms and clawed at his face and eyes. She tried to scream but she could make no sound, her throat squeezed shut by his enormous fingers. Malvolio continued to rage at her, pulling her by the hair as he drew her face to his. “Alan Scott is no more. I sent him through this Stargate to a place where one as weak as him has no chance for survival. He’s dead, Irene!” Even through her pain and the shock of his words, Irene fought against this monster. She was filled with fear and rage-fear of death and rage at the thought of this child in a man’s body threatening her. She would not succumb without a fight, and he would have to kill her to have her. But Malvolio did not want her dead. If he’d willed that it would have happened in a blink of an eye. Like so many men who resort to violence against women, he was simply, pathetically, trying to get her attention. Viciously and without a thought, he threw her to the floor where she landed next to the piano. She was still gasping to get a breath when Malvolio turned to

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her, once again the pleading child. “Please. I love you. We can stop this all if you just say yes to me.” Heaving, gasping, Irene struggled to catch her breath. Finally she got enough air in her lungs to talk. “Okay,” she croaked. “Fine.” Malvolio could not believe it. He began ciying from joy. He stood up and found the ring, which had fallen to the floor behind him. He prepared to throw it through the Stargate. But before he did, he slipped it on his finger one last time. Irene used the moment to find something, anything, to protect herself. Reaching on the desk she found a six-inch letter opener. Her hand wrapped around it. Malvolio felt the power come through him for one last time. Her turned to his love to let her see him in this state before forever becoming mortal. And she stabbed him. If not for the power of the ring, the blade would have pierced his heart. Instead it broke against the skin of chest. Irene, running on pure survival instinct, moved back toward the door, her eyes never leaving Malvolio’s. Her hand reached for the knob. Malvolio did not move, his face neutral. “Go ahead. Leave.” Irene got the door open and fled. Malvolio watched the only thing he’d ever loved leave him. He felt empty, as if something had literally been removed from him. He looked down at the broken blade, and at the ring on his finger, glowing dimly. He took the ring off.

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He stood before the Stargate. For a moment he contemplated throwing it through and turning his back on his destiny. But the folly of this made him laugh aloud for a long time. Instead, Malvolio walked to the mantel of the enormous fireplace and opened the mahogany box there. Inside were the rings he’d taken from Ackermann. He gathered up the box and walked toward the open door.

Irene poured a large glass of bourbon for herself and set it down on the coffee table next to her loaded .38 revolver. She knew that it would have little effect against Malvolio if he decided to come after her, but it was a comfort nonetheless. She lay back on the sofa, her mind running over what just happened. Then she reached for that atlas with her on the couch and opened it to the string of islands running across the Central Pacific toward Japan. Her memory was air-tight and it didn’t fail her now. Using the coordinates she remembered from Malvolio’s map, she found the islands with ease.

CHAPTER

25 T

he task force was a day’s sailing from the target of the inva­ sion. On board the U.S.S. Eldorado, the invasion planners, a cross-service collection of militaiy elite, had just finished their

morning planning meeting, reviewing the details of the invasion yet again. Now back in his wardroom, the general was keyed up—he hadn’t slept in several nights and was functioning on caffeine and nicotine. In the cabin normally assigned to four Naval officers, he paced nervously in front of Piyne. “This whole thing stinks. Scott is missing, so I don’t know if he’s a security breach or he’s dead somewhere. And if he’s dead I don’t know who killed him. Maybe this Malvolio is on the up and up, or maybe he’s not.” Piyne agreed, but tried to assuage the general’s concerns. “As he pointed out, he could have chosen to go after the rings without us.” The general faced Pryne. “So why does he need us now?” “I don’t know, sir. I wish I did.”

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“The whole thing makes me nervous.” A knock on the polished cabin door. “Enter,” the general barked. A Navy officer strode in. “Sir, Captain Brenenthal is here.” “Send him in.” A young Marine officer strode into the cabin and snapped at attention. He was a recruiting poster Marine, straight out of central casting: strong jaw, confident demeanor, with a freshly healed scar running along his cheek. He snapped a salute. “Captain Brenenthal reporting as ordered, sir.” “At ease, Captain.” The captain stood at parade rest, but still carried himself as if at full attention. The general continued his pacing. “What do you know of your mission, Captain?” “The colonel briefed me about Lord Malvolio, sir. My detail is to escort him as he gathers important... artifacts from the island, sir.” “Tell me what the detail is comprised of.” “A hand-picked platoon of men from my company, sir. All are veterans of combat who have performed well under fire.” “Fine. Your mission orders are correct. Escort Mister Malvolio in the recovery of said artifacts. But there’s one more thing. If your charge appears in any way to exhibit any behavior counter to the best interests of the mission, you are ordered to take him out.” For the first time the Marine captain broke his stony demeanor, looking faintly surprised. “Am I to hold him in custody?”

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“Negative. You are to use all forces at your disposal to kill him. Captain, this Malvolio character is capable of great destruction. If you have any doubt whatsoever, take him out. And be armed for bear. The man who was to keep tabs on this Malvolio is missing, so it’ll be up to you and your judgment. Err on the side of caution, Captain.” The stoniness returned to Brenenthal’s face-he had his orders and was prepared to cany them out. “Yes, sir.” “Also, be aware that we will be observing your unit. If we see you engage Malvolio and he appears to have the upper hand, we’ll be calling in air and artillery strikes on your position.” A slight tension showed in his jaw, but otherwise the young captain betrayed no emotion. “Understood, sir.” “What happens today could end this war very quickly. But if it turns against us, we’ll have to do eveiything we can to stop it.” “Aye-aye, sir.” “Good luck Captain.” “Thank you, sir.” The captain saluted, turned on his heels and strode out of the cabin. The general opened another pack of cigarettes. He wished he had a drink, but it was only eight in the morning and he had a long day of preparation ahead. Malvolio sat on the fantail, the warm salty breeze feeling good on his face. He watched the captain preparing with his escort of soldiers. They sat on the aft cargo hatch, cleaning their weapons.

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There was a seriousness about them that Malvolio appreciated—they registered none of the nervous joking or plain fear that most soldiers going into battle revealed, like bad gamblers. These men were seasoned—salty, as their captain described them, and they were ready for combat. This was good for Malvolio. Their strength would be useful in the weeks ahead. Once he armed them with the recovered rings, they would make the core of his army and would be very helpful in taking over this planet.

The Stargate stood glowing amidst the trashed debris of the town­ house. It had sat that way since Malvolio left. In the darkness of the wrecked room, the shimmering Stargate took on a brightness as a harbinger to an arrival. Then suddenly, in a flash and visual warp like a heat wave, Alan Scott appeared through it, ready for a fight. He floated in the room—the sight of the destruction around him surprised Scott and he realized that he’d have to find Malvolio first in order to stop him.

Scott flew through the upper atmosphere and stopped to look down at the world below him. Malvolio was doing nothing to hide his presence and power—the world was sloppy with the pollution of his force, like sprayed blood at a crime scene. All Scott had to do was use his own power to track and follow it. He could feel Malvolio’s presence thousands of miles away. It was taking him to the Pacific.

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The Avenger torpedo bomber usually held a crew of three, but since it was not carrying ordnance, it had room for an observer. The observer on this flight had her hair tucked under her flight helmet, and from her position below the rear gunner’s compartment she had an excellent view of the invasion that was about to begin. The pilot’s voice crackled over her earphones. “You can see the first wave going in just to our port side.” Irene looked through the small window positioned under the fuselage of the plane. On the surface of the ocean below them, dozens of little comma-shaped curves—the wakes of the Higgins boats—were moving in a rough line towards the wide beaches of a large atoll. Hundreds of yards behind the first wave, Irene saw the rough 0 ’s of the next wave of boxy boats circling, crammed with seasick soldiers. And beyond those boats, in the darker, deeper water, lay the hundreds of ships of the invasion fleet: battleships, carriers, destroyer pickets, cruisers, oilers, hospital ships and transports, all doing their part to destroy the Japanese on the island and keep the Marines going in alive and equipped. The warships were finishing their last bombardment of the island before the Marines hit the beach. The Higgins boats looked tiny on the water compared to the massive invasion fleet, like the offspring of a large pack of monsters, the bigger monsters spitting fire and iron toward the beach. The scale of activity was enormous—the artillery bombardment, flashes and the geysers of sand and debris, palm trees and jungle fringe chewed up by the huge shells. Farther inland, Avenger and Dauntless bombers whipped low to drop bombs on perceived targets in the jungle growth. Occasionally a bright flash of secondary

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explosion followed by a plume of dirty smoke roiling skyward proved out the spotter’s guess. Irene took pictures with her camera. The photos would be pub­ lished in the Tribune as her exclusive and would compliment the radio stoiy she’d write and record later today. She kept herself busy at her job, recording everything on film, in notes and to memory—a professional witness to professional killing. She knew she was the only reporter to have this catbird’s seat to this enormous endeavor of mayhem and conquest and she was going to make the most of She had pulled eveiy string she could to get on a transport and to the invasion fleet, but her argument was reasonable: now that she knew the details of the invasion, the military may as well include her so that she’s not a security risk. With her as part of the operation, they could keep an eye on her. She’d gotten the scoop of the century. She pressed her throat microphone. “Lieutenant, do you think we can get in closer?” The pilot, a young man from Indio, California, was just as thrilled by the scene below and despite his orders to stay clear, he was eager to get in and perhaps do more than fly a woman reporter around as she took pictures and notes. “Sure. Let me see what I can do.” Irene felt the plane nose down as the pilot put it into a shallow spiraling decent over the invasion beach.

The wide stretch of beach was crammed with fighting and dying men. As the plane flew lower, Irene could see tracer fire snaking

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from hidden bunkers at the jungle’s edge. The American bombard­ ment had abated as the Marines clambered from the Higgins boats at the water’s edge. She saw a squad of Marines wading ashore from their grounded LCT, and then, unable to move quickly in the water and weighted down with their combat equipment, they watched Japanese machine gun fire send up spurts of sand on the beach toward them, then into the water, then into the group of men, killing or wounding half of them. The surviving half struggled around their comrades, surging in the red-tinged water past them, their entire beings focused on getting onto the beach and to take cover, any cover. Then Japanese mortar rounds began dropping down on the beach, spraying sand and shrapnel through the Marines crawling and stumbling forward. The pilot’s voice came through on Irene's headset. “They have the beach zeroed in for mortar fire. Those boys are sitting ducks unless they get off the beach.” The Avenger flew farther inland, over a tiny airstrip cratered to uselessness, the Japanese planes burning or destroyed. Irene spotted a clearing at the base of the atoll’s dormant volcano, the only high point of the island. She pressed her throat microphone. “Can you fly over that clear­ ing?” The Avenger dipped towards the camp.

Paul Shustak poked his head from the mouth of the cave they had been digging for the past several months. The cave tormented them for so long: the Japanese officer with the strange device, the never-

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ending work of digging deeper into the volcanic rock, dying men being dragged from the depths of the tunnel. So many dead of dis­ ease, starvation, and torture, their captors flogging them on like beasts, not caring about their suffering or if they died. All for those yellow rings. And now the tunnel they dreaded entering became a sanctuary from their countiymen’s bombs. Two dozen POWs—the only survivors left—huddled just inside the mouth of the cave, listening and looking expectantly. Shustak was the oldest among them. Some were captured airmen, others unlucky veterans of sunken ships or failed invasions. Shustak was the most veteran of them, having survived on pure animal instinct. Paul sensed that their liberation was close at hand, and he wanted to get involved. Even now Paul had the urge to fight—it’s what had kept him alive all these months, and what drove him from the cave mouth. It was stupid—the others told him so—and he knew it, yet he wanted to put himself out there, get involved and take part in his own salvation.

The beachhead went from random sniping and the occasional mortar round exploding, to a steady stream of enemy fire and artillery rounds dropping all around them. The LCT’s front ramp had dropped with a splash. Brenenthal’s men were lucky—their LCT made it to the beach instead of wallowing on the reef. Coming in, Malvolio had seen a mortar round score a direct hit on a neighboring LCT, and he heard the shrill screams and saw body parts flying up. “They got the entire beach zeroed in, the bastards,” Brenenthal

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said, peering over the lip of the ramp. He said it almost with admiration, like the captain of an opposing team watching his underestimated opponent putting up a resilient defense. Malvolio was amazed—the mechanical ferociousness of the battle was overwhelming, deafening, blurring. It was an alien experience, and looking about he saw the same grim fear and bewilderment in the Marines around him. The fear was childlike and irrational, without philosophy or politics. If he had his power he would have simply wished himself away to anywhere but here. It was the simplest and strongest thought in his head. But his power had waned badly and he would need all of it to activate the rings. For now he was as vulnerable as any man on the beach. Malvolio could see that only Captain Brenenthal was focused, completely locked in to the goals of the mission. The first and foremost was to get the men off the beach. They were taking cover behind a sandy berm created by the receding tide. It provided no cover and negligible concealment. Other than a few fallen palm trees, the only real cover were the bodies of the Marines that had fallen before them, which the surviv­ ing Marines, in that moment of madness, were eternally grateful to have. Malvolio felt and heard the snap of bullets passing by him, and he was sprayed by sand thrown up from the artillery shells. The air felt alive with the very molecules of death, and moving in them would be like trying to walk between molecules. He felt a tug and turned to see a concerned Brenenthal pulling at his shoulder, yelling and pointing up the beach. Malvolio looked to where Brenenthal was gesturing—a trailhead

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to a simple path barely noticeable in the dense jungle. Malvolio understood that that was the path to the dig. Brenenthal was mouthing something, and for what seemed like a long time Malvolio could not understand, until finally he saw the two words that Brenenthal was yelling through the roar of gunfire. “Follow me.” Malvolio nodded, and Brenenthal got to his feet and made a run for the trail. Malvolio followed closely behind. Around them, the platoon of Marines instinctively provided covering fire for their leader. Brenenthal knew that they would do so and didn’t bother to give the order. Not that it would have mattered. The Marines were firing blindly. It was more psychological than practical—it gave them something to do other than cower. Malvolio crashed through the leafy jungle growth to a dirt path and fell to the ground. The captain was in front of him, on his stomach, searching for any nearby enemy. Malvolio breathed heavily. He hated being mortal and he felt the smallness of it. The gunfire in the jungle was much less, although the huge leaves were dancing to occasional random shots whipping through them. He crawled to the captain, who was stock still, peering into the jungle, down the path. Malvolio knew not to say anything. Then a crash of activity happened behind him and Malvolio turned on his back to see more of the platoon making it to the clearing. Embarrassed at being startled, Malvolio turned to see if the captain had seen this, but he had not. Brenenthal was already on his feet and moving down the path. A second later, the Marines were moving

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past Malvolio. A young Marine, still in his teens, gently touched Malvolio’s elbow. “I’d think about moving out with us, sir. It might be better than staying here.” Malvolio smiled, once again embarrassed-this time at the young warrior’s thoughtfulness and understatement. Malvolio got to his feet and began the trek down the trail. He looked behind him to see the platoon following—it looked as if most of the men had survived the carnage on the beach. Now their fear was more directed-snipers, booby traps and ambushes replaced the impersonal factoiylike death that was being dealt on the beach. The killing here would be personal and specific, from one man or group of men to another. Despite the Allied shelling, the jungle still seemed incredibly dense, if not denser. The bombardment had to some degree simply added to it, causing trees to tumble and sprinkling leaves every­ where. Brenenthal continued to move carefully but quickly down the trail. Normally he wouldn’t be at the front of the colum n-he had more adept men available to do this—but he made this exception because he feared the mission. Something was not right about it and for the first time in his career he secretly wished for a wound that would take him from the responsibility that might come later. The jungle cut off the light and closed in on the trail and the men. The moisture of the plants gave off a hothouse smell, the sweetness of the rotting fruit and vegetation almost overwhelming. The blazing sun of the beach was replaced by treacherous shadows. Although it wasn’t as blisteringly hot, there was nothing soothing about the shadows and silence of the jungle.

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The roar of the battle behind them diminished, as if they had closed the door to a large factory. As they moved along, the stillness of the jungle was broken by an occasional stray bullet, or piece of shrapnel, or a crazed fleeing animal, but they encountered no enemy. Finally they came to the edge of a clearing. They moved off the trail, and Brenenthal signaled for his squads to break up and move around the perimeter. The clearing was about a hundred yards in diameter and was completely free of any vegetation. It stood out from the jungle like a bald spot on a hairy man. A series of wooden huts were arranged in the middle of the clearing, and a ten-foot wire fence surrounded the buildings. The fences were meant to keep the POWs in but they appeared almost as symbols—the men were too weak to run and there was no way off the island. A gate faced northwest, toward the base of the mountain. Bren­ enthal could see a cave mouth about fifty yards from the gate and toward the dormant volcano. Although the cave appeared to be natural, it had been dug out and modified to accommodate crude wooden carts. These carts had volcanic rock heaped on them, and stood at the mouth of the cave like patient, dumb beasts of burden. Brenenthal pointed the cave entrance out to Malvolio, who nod­ ded. Gesturing silently, he pointed to his squad leaders and, panto­ miming with his hand, indicated that he wanted them to flank the cave entrance and to avoid the clearing. Malvolio looked up—the sun was past its noonday position. He sensed an impatience, an urgency driven by intuition that someone was closing in on him. As they watched the squads of men stealthily

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moving through the edge of the jungle toward the cave mouth, he stood up. Brenenthal looked up at him, surprised. Malvolio stepped out into the clearing and turned to look down at Brenenthal. “I appreciate your caution and your concern for your men, but I lack the time for this.” Boldly, Malvolio strode towards the cave mouth. Brenenthal watched him. His lieutenant stared as well. “What’s the crazy bastard doing? Looks like he’s walking to the corner to pick up a pack of smokes.” Both squads stopped and watched Malvolio walk the distance toward the cave mouth. The clearing became oddly quiet, as if the battle on the beach had ceased, artillery had stopped firing and American dive bombers and fighters were no longer in the air. The coincidence of the lull added to the strangeness of the moment. Malvolio walked past the deserted huts but was not interested in them or any of their occupants. In his mind he was walking toward a destiny that would not be denied by a sniper’s bullet. Fear had not been part of him for centuries, and the emotion was as alien as compassion or love.

Alan Scott, the Green Lantern, flew over the incoming wave of Marines who were peering over the ocean water-soaked side of the landing craft, crammed in with men, rifles held vertically. Every man in the LST was locked in his own mind, battling fears, hoping for the best, cursing their luck, praying. Scott felt for them and felt almost lucky to have other issues. His concern was finding Malvolio and keeping him from the power of the rings.

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Scott landed on the beach, which was shrouded in the smoke and haze of mass destruction. Japanese mortar shells were still being lobbed in, spraying sand, coral and shrapnel amidst the struggling Marines who were crawling on their bellies towards the clearing like primordial beasts, moving from the water’s edge to some higher form of life inland. For a brief moment, everything seemed to stop—the shelling, the gunfire, the planes buzzing overhead. It was as if they were in the eye of a steel storm. The next wave of landing craft chugged forward as if it were on a simple mission to shuttle human cargo from one place to the next. They could have been commuters on a ferry, or tourists on a sightseeing boat. The expectance in the silence simply made the dread grow in each man, who by now had no illusions about a neutralized target. The target was still very active, furious and determined to kill them. The silence was disturbed only by their enemies taking a breath.

Malvolio walked toward the cave mouth, unaware of the silence. Brenenthal aimed his carbine at the back of Malvolio’s head, finger on the trigger. He had no idea what the man was up to, but he was ready to end his life the moment he saw that his men were at risk. Malvolio continued his walk toward the cave mouth. Just as he was about to enter, he was startled by the sight of a man stepping out. The man was Caucasian, haggard and thin. At first Malvolio thought the man was old, but the haggardness in his eyes showed that he was aged beyond his years. His United States Army uniform was torn and bleached by sun and age. The shock of this man

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emerging from the cave mouth, looking like walking dead, stopped Malvolio in his tracks. But something else about the man caught Malvolio’s attention: he was wearing one of the rings. It was still dormant and the man was unaffected by its potential power. Malvolio turned to Brenenthal, smiling. His smile turned to a frown when he saw that the Marine was aiming at him. And that moment, the first mortar round hit yards away from Malvolio, knocking him off his feet. Scott watched the LSTs lurch forward and nose onto the soft sand of the beach. Ramps dropped and suddenly the tiny steel boxed sanctuaries were exposed to a beach filled with death. The roar blasted toward the onrushing Marines, the lull gone, the killing once again in full force. Screams from the men to move forward mixed with the roar of battle. The screams were war cries, shouts to build courage and instill fear. Every man wanted nothing more than to get out of the killing boxes of the LSTs, even if it meant getting onto the more deadly expanse of beach. So the men pushed, tumbled, tripped and stumbled forward, with no sense of a hero’s grace or skill, animal fear in their eyes, their goal to survive long enough to fear the next moment. And Scott pushed among them, his boots churning in the soft sand. He could feel and hear the “vip-vip” of bullets from some unseen Nambu machine gun whipping past and through him, the sand flicking around him as bullets hit around the struggling Americans. Scott focused on the clearing that the map had shown to be the fastest way to the cave mouth, and his entire being drove him there.

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The shells were dropping all around Malvolio—the Japanese were on the hill above the cave and were waiting for him to approach. They had the entrance bracketed by their mortar, and as the rounds exploded around him, he could hear the steady staccato of a machine gun on the hill above him. The man at the cave entrance moved back as the rounds started exploding. Malvolio lay on his belly, frozen by the killing steel, and he and the man made eye contact. Paul Shustak thought it was another waking dream, this strange man with long hair walking towards him, healthy and large, without fear and triumphant. Then the whistling of the mortars and the ambush began, and all the old fright came washing back over him, and he moved back in the cave for safety. But as he saw the proud man crawling and the look of desperation in his eyes, Shustak felt himself moving forward out the cave, towards the man. Then sprinting/hobbling, he made his way to the big man and grabbed him by the arm and helped him to his feet. He could see that the man wasn’t w ounded-he had simply frozen as the fire became intense. And because Shustak had accepted his death long ago, it was nothing for him to brave the fire. Brenenthal was ready to shoot Malvolio, but the sight of him shrinking under fire, literally crawling on his belly, made Brenenthal freeze. Now the POW was helping Malvolio to the cave mouth. He did not know what to do. He was sure Malvolio was walking as if aware of a secret that would have a vicious surprise for them. His look of triumph was smug and awful, and Brenenthal instinctively was ready to end it. But the POW helped the huge man to the cave entrance to wait

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out the storm of fire raining down on them. And Brenenthal could do nothing himself but wait as well. Malvolio saw that the cave’s interior was shored up with timbre and had been meticulously bored out. The Japanese must have been sure of the location of their rings. Deeper inside, in an alcove off the main tunnel, a dozen POWs, American, Australians and Filipino, huddled together, the haunted look of hunger, malnourishment and disease making their eyes appear huge as they watched Malvolio approach them. He turned to Shustak. “You have my thanks.” Shustak just shrugged. “No offense, but I’d rather have a ham­ burger.” Malvolio walked to Shustak and took his hand in his. Lifting the hand up, Malvolio looked at the yellow ring. He smiled and looked at Paul. “The ring. Where did you get it?” Malvolio asked. “One of the other diggers gave it to me before he died,” Paul told him. “That’s all I know.” Malvolio looked into Paul’s eyes. “Do you know what it can do?” “I just know that these bastards were working us to death to get more of ‘em. That’s why I kept it hidden-I figured it’s going to be worth something, right?” “Absolutely.” Shustak looked suspicious and childlike for a moment. “You’re not thinking of taking it, are you?” “No, by all means I want you to have it. But I do need to do this...”

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Malvolio revealed to Paul that he had a similar ring. Then, relish­ ing the moment, Malvolio brought his ring to Shustak’s. They glowed with energy. The moment was electric, thrilling Malvolio but terrifying the frail soldier. They broke apart and Shustak fell to the floor. He quickly took the ring off and threw it at Malvolio’s feet. “You can have it,” Paul said with fear in his voice. Malvolio studied the frail soldier. “Is there a problem?” Paul stared at the ring in the dirt. “I didn’t like what it was doing. Something about it... ” “Yes?” asked Malvolio expectantly. “... Was wrong. It was wrong.” Paul was at a loss for words. Malvolio picked up the ring. “You’re simply overwhelmed. But if you insist, I’ll keep it.” Malvolio pocketed the ring, and for a long moment, enjoyed the glow of his newly restored power. He turned to Paul. “Now, the other rings—where are they?” Paul pointed down the tunnel. Malvolio made his way down the hot wetness of the tunnel, the walls damp with moisture. The smell of jungle rot was even fiercer, gagging. Finally the tunnel dead-ended, and an array of smoking wicker lamps added soot to the already stifling air. What they lit up made Malvolio sag: an enormous wooden chest was lodged in the wall. The chest was covered with ancient writing, glyphs and pictograms of a long-dead culture. It was impossible to tell if the people who had made this chest and those marks were human or originated elsewhere, but Malvolio was certain that they were warnings.

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Furious, Malvolio pounded his fist against the wooden box. Malvolio turned and saw that the leader of the POWs was standing behind him in the cave. Malvolio’s look was imploring. “I need to get this box opened.”

As Scott made his way up the jungle path he could hear a battle raging ahead. Lowering his stance and moving quickly, he saw two Marines hunkered down, firing across an expanse of clearing at a bluff fifty feet high. Huts in the clearing were burning from mortar and tracer fire, and the battle seemed to be at a stalemate. The enemy held the high ground, but the Marines were putting up a hell of a fight. Scott grabbed the shoulder of the officer firing at the bluff. Startled, he whipped around, ready to attack Scott. Scott quickly held up his hand in peace and yelled over the din. “Malvolio?” The captain gestured toward the cave mouth. Scott, grim, leaned in to the captain. “I’m going to get him. I have to stop him. Other­ wise we’re all dead.” The captain nodded. “Okay, but we’re coming with. We’ll have more of a chance if we go with you.” Scott nodded back. He knew that these were once again bad odds, but he had no choice: if Malvolio got those rings, Scott wouldn’t have the power to stop him. The captain passed the order to the men around him. On his signal they were to rush the cave, line abreast. The men dropped their packs and held their weapons in a crouch, ready to charge forward.

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Brenenthal raised his arm—every Marine’s eyes were fixed on him. But just as Brenenthal was about to drop his arm down, he sensed a change in the battle. Soon every Marine sensed it-th e Japanese gunfire was slackening off. Brenenthal and Scott exchanged glances: this couldn’t be good. The Japanese shooting stopped altogether, giving the clearing an eerie silence. Then they heard voices—screaming, shrieking in fury. Japanese soldiers were coming down off the bluff, charging towards the encampment and towards the Marines. They were screaming at the top of the lungs, some yelling “Banzai,” others letting out pier­ cing unintelligible war cries, using their voices to quell their own fear and strike fear into the Marines. Scott turned to the captain. “We have to go-w e can’t let them get to the cave.” Scott was on his feet then, flying towards the Japanese soldiers. The captain watched him go. “Christ,” he muttered, then got to his feet and leapt over the log. His men, fear in their throats, saw their captain charge forward and automatically rose to join him. Scott flew forward, using the energy of his ring to deflect the fire of the charging Japanese. He saw an officer leading them, his uni­ form orderly, the bright sunlight glinting off his raised samurai sword. As he flew by, Scott swung at him and the man went down, the sword falling into the dust. The soldiers behind him, seeing this, charged faster and with more fuiy, firing their rifles from the hip. The Marines emerged from the jungle and rushed the Japanese. Gunfire was random, erratic and strangely ineffectual: some men

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fell from being hit, but most continued forward until finally they merged in a murderous crowd, stabbing at each other with bayonets and Kabar knives, bludgeoning with rifle butts and entrenching tools. They entered the threshold to the primordial. None of the living would emerge unchanged. Scott used his powers to create a green arc in front of him, trying to sweep away the soldiers bent on killing him. He moved towards the cave mouth. He felt a hard thump on the side of his head and fell, his jaw numb, his vision blurred and dizzy from the blow. He turned to see a Japanese soldier bent on smashing him again with his wooden rifle butt, the force enough to cave his skull in, when the young soldier’s face blew open from a bullet entering his skull from behind and blowing his nose and right eye out. The gore sprayed on Scott and he rolled out of the way of his potential killer’s collapsing body. Scott got to his feet and stumbled toward the cave mouth. Around him, men were locked in hand-to-hand combat, and although there was still gunfire, he could hear screams and incoherent shouts as the two forces struggled to kill each other by any means possible. Scott passed a Marine squeezing his thumbs into a Japanese soldier’s eyes, the rich red blood flowing from the wounds onto the screaming soldier’s face and the Marine’s large, hairy hands. And as he moved towards the cave, Scott was startled by the sight of thin soldiers-POW s-stumbling from the cave and into the struggle around him. At first he thought they were coming to join the battle, but the expressions on their faces made him realize that they were fleeing from something so terrifying that they were willing to risk running headlong into a firefight to get away from it.

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And that could only be Malvolio. The last person coming from the cave was his old friend Paul. He ran to him, but Paul was barely aware of his surroundings. Scott pulled Paul to the side of the cave entrance. “P aul-w hat’s happened? Where’s Malvolio?” Paul just stared back, uncomprehending. Scott grabbed his friend and dragged him out of the fight, away from the cave mouth. Then an explosion blew from the cave mouth—the force tremend­ ous and ear-splitting. The slap of it sent Paul and Alan tumbling into the jungle, Paul protected from the force of the blast by Alan’s cocoon of green energy. The other soldiers and POWs had no such protection. Some were decapitated or blown apart by flying rock, their limbs and torsos scattering about. Others were knocked down by slap of the concus­ sion. The explosion was not like others—it seemed to be concen­ trated, like an outpouring of concentrated energy. Scott recognized this force. Malvolio emerged from the tunnel. He looked calm and centered, made whole by his regenerated power.

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he soldiers, Japanese and American, slowly got to their feet, dazed by the force of the blast. Instinctively they focused on M alvolio-the will of his presence overrode any previous

thought to wipe each other out. They knew they were in the presence of great power, and Malvolio relished it. As he stepped forward, the soldiers inched back, some crawling, stumbling away from his evil. The first man motivated to act was Brenenthal. Lying wounded, his hand inched towards the nozzle of a flame thrower. The tank of the device was still attached to a dead marine, cut down before he could fully engage his monstrous weapon. Brenenthal was stealthy. The air was charged with the promise of destruction. Malvolio heard a scream and turned to see a Japanese officer charging at him with a samurai sword. The officer was wounded but still he mustered the will to stumble to Malvolio, sword arched behind his back and ready to slice down. The officer was intent on Malvolio’s thick neck, particularly the jugular. If he hit him right

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the sword would cut the spine as well and the evil man would be dead before his body hit the ground. But the soldier never got that far. Malvolio thrust his hand for­ ward and the officer froze in mid-stride, hanging with both feet in the air, as if he were a statue or a life-size toy soldier. Malvolio walked to the petrified warrior, who tracked Malvolio with only his eyes. Malvolio touched the blade of the sword, admiring its sharpness. “Very good. You’ll make an excellent minion.” Brenenthal leapt to his feet and pointed the nozzle of the flame thrower at Malvolio. Thankfully, he saw that the pilot flame was on. Squeezing down on the trigger, Brenenthal felt a back-blast of heat as the liquid flame poured from the nozzle onto Malvolio and the Japanese officer. Brenenthal could hear screams as neither body moved as he coated them with fire. He continued on spraying the two, yet neither moved. Peering through the flame, he saw that the fire was flowing around Malvolio like a water current around a stone. But he could also see that the Japanese soldier had no such immunity, yet could not move from Malvolio’s entombment. It was his screams filling the air, but that soon stopped. Brenenthal released the trigger. Malvolio stood before him unscathed, staring. Behind him the burnt corpse of the Japanese officer stood in mid-air, the samurai sword above him still in tact, but the muscle and flesh holding it burnt greasy and smoking. With a flick of his hand, Malvolio released the corpse to fall to the ground with a sickening thump, the flesh breaking apart like so much overcooked meat.

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Malvolio glanced at the smoldering corpse and shook his head. “Pity. He would have been a nice conscript.” Malvolio then turned his attention the Brenenthal. “You did an excellent job of being stealthy, Captain, but I’m afraid your fire-breathing machine can do me no harm.” Brenenthal was petrified from fear. Willing himself, he clamped down on the trigger once again as Malvolio walked toward him. Once again the flame danced around Malvolio, this time, as he moved towards Brenenthal, it behaved like water pushing away from the bow of a mighty ship. A distant roar grew louder as the soldiers around him rose to attack, firing every weapon they had, but nothing could penetrate his energy shield. Bullet slugs bounced off the shield or simply got stuck and fell to the ground. A grenade rolled to Malvolio’s feet and he picked it up, admiring it. It detonated in his hand, sending him back a bit startled, but the explosion and shrapnel had no effect—his energy shield was too potent. The men were exposed now, instinctively channeling all their killing energy at the man before them, unaware of the exposure, uncaring for themselves. Eveiy one of them knew that they needed to stop this power before them and eveiy one of the soldiers did everything they could to do so. Malvolio watched them as they tried futilely to kill him. He nod­ ded in approval. “Good... good! You’ve giving an excellent audition!” Malvolio spread his arm. The shield of energy protecting him spread like liquid, wrapping the thirty soldiers, sealing them so that they became immovable, frozen in action. Fingers could no longer

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pull triggers, heads could not turn. One soldier, about to throw a grenade, found that he could not move, the grenade in one hand and the pin in the other. The grenade exploded, shearing off his head and arm in an instant, yet the rest of his body stayed in place, held by Malvolio’s energy. That explosion was the last sound anyone made. Malvolio strolled among the soldiers as if he were in a sculpture garden. He stepped over corpses, dropped weapons, wounded men writhing in pain. He stood before them. “Yes. You’ll do.” Then he walked to Brenenthal. Brenenthal could feel the flamethrower canisters lifting away from his back and the nozzle being taken from his hands but he could not see what Malvolio was doing with him or where he was going. The coolness of the cave was soothing. Malvolio stood before the massive wooden chest, holding the flamethrower. “I stand before you with the key.” Malvolio pointed the nozzle of the flamethrower and squeezed the trigger. Flame spewed from it, engulfing the chest. It began to bum fiercely in the coating of fire. He could see the wood weakening.

The beach resistance had slackened off—the Japanese had moved toward the foot of the volcano, into coconut log bunkers and caves blasted from volcanic rock. They readied themselves to exact as much of a toll in human pain that they could before the Americans overwhelmed them. The Marines on the beach ran forward bent low, making an effort

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to present a harder target to the snipers harassing them. But even through the snipers and the occasional mortar round impacting on the beach, the Marines were beginning the next phase of the inva­ sion: bringing in men and materiel to make the beach a fortress, an anvil of might that would prevent any counter-attack that would throw them back into the sea. Green Lantern moved against this surging tide of Marines, half­ carrying Paul, who had his arm around Scott’s neck. Green Lantern helped his dazed friend to an aid station at the edge of the jungle and sat him down amidst other wounded and dying men. He crouched down and looked Paul in the eyes. “You’ll be safe here—I’ve got to go back.” Paul reached to grab his savior, but Green Lantern gently pulled his hand off his sleeve and went back to the war. He made his way past the milling troops, men carrying boxes instead of rifles. He spotted the man he was looking for and made a bee-line toward him. Corporal Tills considered himself a patriot, but he didn’t w ant to be in this war, and certainly not with the Marines, who seemed as thirsty for their own blood to spill as the enemy’s. He joined up with his MIT classmates in a spasm of patriotic fervor. He had wanted to kill Japanese, and the Marines were the likeliest outfit to accomplish this. But because of his training in theoretical physics, someone much less intelligent than him decided to make him a radio operator, which for Tills meant being in harm’s way all the time, and with an outstanding target strapped to his back. Next to an officer, the radioman was a favorite target of snipers. He had been through

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actions all over the South Pacific, and he had yet to fire a shot in anger. He lay as low as he could in a shell hole, faming at his fate and tiying to ignore the dead Marine lying nearby. He had seen many Japanese corpses, but something about seeing a fellow Marine life­ less-shot, drowned or blown apart-w as too much, too close to permanently shattering what was left of his youthful misconception that everyone else in a war is susceptible to death but not him. Just before they boarded the LST he’d heard that a fellow fratern­ ity brother had been killed by a sniper. He could barely picture his face, but just the knowledge that they had shared the same experi­ ences—attended the same fraternity mixers, walked the same campus paths, struggled through similar class work, cheered at the same ball games-made him pressingly aware that out here death cares nothing about your social standing, allegiances, intelligence or philosophies. Out here, clean living was a pain in the ass, and heroism was a very bad joke. These thoughts cycled endlessly through Tills’ fevered mind as he lay waiting for the battle to end for him one way or another. Tills felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see the Green Lan­ tern, an expression of great intent on his face. To Tills, the sight of the super-hero looked like nothing but trouble for him. “Soldier, I need you to bring that radio with me.” “Where, sir?” The man in the cape and mask gestured inland. “Up there.” Tills glanced up to the thick jungle encroaching the beach. “Is that really necessary, sir?” Tills asked.

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“Soldier, none of this is really necessary, but as long as we’re here we might as well make the effort. What’s the problem?” “Sir, my brother just died on this beach.” “Your brother?” “My fraternity brother.” The Green Lantern stared at Tills. “What’s your name?” “Tills, sir.” “Tills, what are the odds of two fraternity brothers getting killed in the same action? You’re good with numbers, right? Think about it. But while you’re doing so, move your ass.” For Tills, what Green Lantern had said was like a dawning sun to the darkness of his thoughts. “Good lord, sir, I think you’re right... ” “Don’t think about it —just believe it.” Tills smiled at the idea. “I can’t get killed. I can’t!” Tills thought about it, and the more he did the more sense it made to him. He found himself on his feet and following the masked hero through the gunfire to the jungle. And at each step, he felt more invincible. What were the odds? Tills thought he knew and he liked them. Tills followed Green Lantern down the path, snipers’ bullets kicking at his heels. He didn’t care—he was in his own movie now, made possible by the death of dear old what’s-his-name, who hedged enough to allow him this moment. Green Lantern and Tills came to the edge of the camp. They could see soldiers lined at attention. Remarkably, they saw that the soldiers were both American and Japanese. Something in the way they were standing showed them that something was wrong. In the peaceful

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stillness of the clearing, the men stood in rank, prisoners of their own bodies. There was no sign of Malvolio. Tills tugged Green Lantern’s sleeve, “What’s going on, sir? Did they call some kind of truce?” “They’re prisoners of a greater enemy, Tills. Be ready to contact fleet for a fire mission.” “Where?” “Here. On those men. I’m going to need all the help I can get.” Scott raised his binoculars to look at the men. He recognized some as the Marines from the first wave. The Japanese soldiers looked haggard but still fit. Where they stood, the Green Lantern could see discarded weapons at their feet, near the wounded and fresh dead from their melee. He focused on the faces of the men—their expressions were neutral, yet he could see great fear and animal confusion in their eyes. As he scanned along the row of men, he saw that some were frail—American POWs. Among them was Captain Brenenthal-standing at full attention, his uniform ripped and bloody. He appeared to be incapable of moving: trapped in his own body. The Green Lantern could see Brenenthal’s eyes searching desperately for help. Tills was startled as the Green Lantern jumped to his feet and was about to run into the clearing. He got to his feet as well, ready to follow, when they were both thrown back by a roar of fire that belched from the opening of the cave. The flames shot from the cave mouth again, long and sustained, black soot and smoke curling from the orange fire. The fire went on for a long time, then just as suddenly stopped.

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The Lantern and Tills stood, watching. Coming to his senses, Green Lantern pulled Tills back down into the brush. Malvolio walked from the smoking cave, smiling triumphantly. Green Lantern saw that Malvolio was carrying a large, burning box. He turned to the radio operator. “Get me fleet, Tills. Now.” “But those men, sir—they’re Marines and POWs.” Scott hesitated and turned to look at the men in the clearing. He could see Brenenthal clearly, his eyes large in his petrified face. “Give me that handset, Tills.”

Malvolio threw the smoldering box on the ground in front of the line of soldiers. Kicking open the half-burned wood, Malvolio reached in and pulled out a handful of Sleeper rings, still glowing hot from being blasted by the flamethrower. The box held hundreds of them. Malvolio threw the rings into the air, where they froze. Malvolio willed them into a line that matched the soldiers before him, until each man had a ring floating before him. Green Lantern waited. He had memorized the coordinates, and they were ready for his call. The general had seen to that. Tills broke into the frequency the Lantern had given them. Pryne and the general were standing by on the Eldorado. Green Lantern read the coordinates from the map to Tills, who relayed the fire data over the radio. The Lantern grabbed Tills’ arm and said in a whisper, “Tell them to hit it with everything.” On the Eldorado, Pryne passed the coordinates to the general to read. The general handed it back, and said, “Throw everything we’ve got at them.”

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The soldiers, frozen in the green energy, felt themselves moving. Malvolio had control of their bodies, and he moved them like chess pieces, arranging them in ranks. The men found themselves at attention, lined and stock straight. Oddly, each had his hand held forward at the waist, palm down. Malvolio walked down the ranks of the thirty-odd men, admiring them. He turned at the head of them, and their heads swiveled to face him, although they couldn’t control this. “You’ve proven your fierceness in battle. You are ready for the highest honor. To serve under me and become the core of a mighty army. You will help grow my forces and I will lead you to triumph, to greatness and eternal glory.” Then Malvolio moved down the ranks, and stopped before each man, Japanese and American, and placed a ring on each man’s finger. Bewildered, the men’s eyes searched for a hint of their fate. Malvolio walked to the head of the two columns and raised his hand. From his ring came the energy that moved out in viscous path through the air, towards each man's ring. Every ring began to glow, and the men’s eyes grew wide as they felt the power surging through them. They could feel the power making them stronger, denser, more massive. Although they phys­ ically appeared the same, the muscle took on the density of steel battleship armor, and their skin was as coarse and hard as granite. The confusion and fear that occupied them was pushed out by single-minded, pure will: the singular desire to express themselves in violence against any and all humans. They were happy now, because they felt the plan and the means to accomplish it. It would be the same purpose that a shark has, or a praying mantis. Morality

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ceased to exist for them. They were now human killing machines in the purest way. This was Malvolio’s gift to them. It was his greatest pleasure and the state he had striven for since avenging his mother. These men were his family now, and as he enabled the first of his Sleeper sol­ diers with his power, he told them so. The Lantern watched Malvolio speaking to the men, and muttered, “Good. Stay long-winded, you pompous nut.” Malvolio continued to speak. He gestured, and the glowing rings slowly slid in unison onto the outstretched fingers of the soldiers. Green Lantern could see that the metal was burning their flesh. He could see the agony in the men’s eyes, yet they remained stock-still. Then Malvolio put his hands in the air, and green energy poured forth from his ring, tendrils of energy moving like smoke towards each man’s ring. The Green Lantern swallowed. “C’mon... ” The tendrils touched each ring, causing them to glow faintly. The muzzle blasts from the enormous 16-inch guns of the battleship were capable of bursting a man’s eardrums. Firing in quick succession, the guns created an unbelievable thunder of manmade destruction. The shells moved through the sky with the rumble of a freight-train, making the men on the beach stop their work and listen as the huge rounds arced over them, thankful that they weren’t the intended target. The ominous moaning of the first rounds from the battleships’ guns were approaching the camp. Malvolio laughed richly. Green Lantern and Tills threw themselves to the ground as the first shells came pounding in. Green Lantern used his power to form

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a dome over the two of them. The slap of concussion was terrifying, and the roar of one shell after another drowned any other sound out. The impact of the shells on the ground bounced Green Lantern and Tills off the jungle floor. All thought became animal—pure survival and the clear, fervent wish to have it all end. Round after round of the huge shells slammed into the area, annihilating the huts, the cave mouth, volcanic rock disintegrating, sending tiny pieces flying like millions of tiny knives. As the ground was churned by the explosions, enormous trees went flying like straw in a storm. Minutes passed as round after round slammed into the area. The navy was accurate. When Tills and Green Lantern pulled themselves out from under the debris, the clearing was unrecogniz­ able from what it had been just minutes ago. The ground was churned, and huge craters littered the area, the foliage blasted and scattered from the man-made typhoon. The huts were either flattened or simply blasted to kindling. Small secondary fires burned, adding to the dust and haze from the bombing. As it all cleared, Green Lantern and Tills saw that the men that were standing before them were still there, in the same position. Tills was stunned by the sight. “It’s not possible—they couldn’t have just stood there through that.” “But they did.” “All of that fire, but nothing’s changed!” “One thing has.” The Lantern pointed-the rings that were floating before the men were now on their fingers, the heat of them burned into their flesh.

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Green Lantern could also see that the expressions of the men had hardened into something unreal. They looked animal-like but at peace. Some even wore beatific smiles, as if suddenly finding themselves blessed. Malvolio stood before them, his laughter loud and rich in the sudden silence. Tills felt the familiar tug of fear. “What’s happening?” “They’ve been energized,” the Green Lantern said. “Those rings. The men belong to Malvolio now.” The sound of voices came from the jungle—the remaining Japanese regiment was leading a final banzai charge against Mal­ volio’s men. They fired at them and threw grenades. Explosions from knee mortars blew up around them, but the group of men simply turned to face the charging Japanese soldiers. They did not even bother to pick up weapons. As the Japanese waded into them, Malvolio’s men set about killing them simply, primordially, and with great joy in their hearts. As shrapnel and bullets bounced from them, the men took to plunging their fingers into the flesh of the enemy, reaching in and gutting them. Others ripped limbs off, or ripped into flesh, grabbing a rib or a spine and tearing it out of the living victims. It took Malvolio’s men little time to slaughter their attackers. They did so efficiently, with great relish and enthusiasm. Not one was harmed by the bullets, shrapnel and blades that tried to cut into them. They appeared to be completely immune to anything that could be mustered to stop them. Malvolio did not participate but walked among the killing,

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watching his men do their work. He was pleased. “If this is what thirty can do, what can three hundred accomplish?” Once his power was displayed to all, the world would be his. Not only would they be impressed by his might, but they would also recognize the futility in trying to oppose him, let alone defeat him. And Earth would be an excellent training ground for his army to hone their skills. With his power restored, the Stargate would be beckoning... As the slaughter continued, Malvolio stopped a Sleeper and handed him ten rings. “You’ve done well, and you make me proud. I give you ten rings-go out and bring me back recruits for our army. Search out the strong and I will make them stronger.” Then Malvolio sent the soldier into the sky, willing him into flight. He shouted to the departing Sleeper: “When we are done, the only soldiers on the planet will belong to my army!”

CHAPTER

27 G

reen Lantern stepped from the jungle into the clearing.

Looking down at his hand, he saw that his ring glowed faintly. It would not be nearly enough to defeat Malvolio,

especially with his small army of killers. But he knew that this would be the only chance to stop him before more Sleepers left this island. As the melee of hand-to-hand killing swirled around him, the Lantern moved directly toward Malvolio. Some of Malvolio’s men attempted to attack the Green Lantern, but he was able to push them back with the force of his energy, bouncing them onto the ground or pinning them against trees. But he did not engage them; he needed all he had left to go against Malvolio, Malvolio watched his brother Green Lantern push through his men. At last they stood in front of each other. Malvolio smiled almost fondly at Alan Scott.

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Then, like gunfighters on the draw, the two Green Lanterns sim­ ultaneously sent blasts of energy hurling towards each other. The force of the blast of energy blew the men near them into the jungle and cratered the ground beneath their feet. The electricity of the force stunned all nearby, human and Sleepers, burning the closest with the radiant waves. A green light flashed like a concussion wave into the sky and across the island, so that even the combat on the beach lulled from the spectacle. It rocked the Avenger that held Irene, causing the plane to dip lower, bobbing in the humid air rising from the jungle below. Irene leaned out as the Avenger angled to the left. Through the Plexiglas, she could see Malvolio’s men in the clearing assaulting the Japanese soldiers. Malvolio was standing amidst his men, locked in battle with what appeared to be another Green Lantern. Irene saw that it was the Green Lantern: the catcher of bank robbers and jewel thieves. “You’re playing in the majors now,” she said out loud as she watched the two men shoot waves of clashing energy toward one another. The two men seemed to be flying above the others, taking leaps as if gravity no longer pertained to them. Although they did not touch each other, they used their hands in gestures of striking, and Irene could see ripples of energy emanating from their limbs, as if melting the fabric of the air as they blasted each other, mutually intent on destruction. The two men faced off, pushing energy belts toward each other, and it became clear that Green Lantern was losing to Malvolio. Malvolio took less energy and concentration to battle the Lantern,

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as if he were sparring, but then grew impatient and began slapping at his opponent with wave after wave of force, then picking Green Lantern up, throwing him above the treetops and then, with increasing velocity, slamming him into the ground. Green Lantern appeared to literally be broken. He lay motionless on the ground, surrounded by the dead. His eyes opened and he saw Malvolio standing next to him, looking down into his eyes. “I have the source of your strength. The power is mine.” Green Lantern attempted to get to his feet, but Malvolio placed a huge hand on his shoulder and forced him back down. “Wait. Join me. You will never have the power I have. I will give you energy if you serve me. We can tame this planet and give it the peace that it no longer has.” Green Lantern looked up at Malvolio with hatred. “That’s what they all say, Malvolio. You’re just another of a long line of jokers promising peace through destruction and fear.” Malvolio’s eyes turned dark. “You have no choice but to join me. Otherwise I’ll destroy you.” Green Lantern slowly sat up. He was in excruciating pain. Mal­ volio offered his hand, or rather, the ring on it. The Lantern looked at Malvolio’s offer. His own ring was all but dimmed out. He looked at Malvolio. “Surrender, Malvolio.” Malvolio smiled. “I admire your bravado. I suppose you’re doing it for her.” Malvolio pointed to the sky and the TBF Avenger flying in an orbit above them. “Use what power you have left to see who’s in that machine.”

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But the Lantern didn’t have to -h e knew that Irene was in the plane. “I’ve waited centuries to find this love,” Malvolio said, “and when this is done, she will be mine. I am delighted that she’s on hand to witness the birth of my reign. It’s only fitting that she also see your death. If this is your choice, let us finalize your decision. Rise, Alan Scott.” Green Lantern got to his feet. The drone of the plane’s radial engine grew louder as the plane buzzed above them. Green Lantern, costume ripped, shielding his left side, squared off against Malvolio. “You speak so much of will, Malvolio. Instead of pure brute strength, let’s test our wills.” “How do you propose to do this?” “That’s simple.” Green Lantern turned and pointed his hands at the Avenger flying over them. A stream of energy shot from his fingertips towards the plane. It caught the plane and seemed to suspend it in mid-air. The energy froze the propeller to a dead stop. Inside the airplane, the pilot was shocked-his controls ceased to function at all, and the stick and rudders were frozen solid. Irene felt the jolt and the odd sensation of the sudden motionless of the aircraft she was in. Malvolio watched as Green Lantern focused his remaining energy on the plane. “What are you doing?” Scott pushed his hands upward and the plane leapt higher into the air, but not as if it were in flight: instead it simply jolted straight

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up. The force of its vertical ascent ripped the wings from the fusel­ age, and the plane hurled directly upward into the thinning air. Irene and the pilot felt the plane moving like an elevator gone haywire, pinning them to their seats with incredible force. As the plane shot skyward, Irene could not even raise her hand to her face: the force of the acceleration was too great against her body. Soon the thinning air made them light-headed, and as freezing cold bled into the cockpit, they lost consciousness. From Green Lantern’s and Malvolio’s point of view, the plane was now a mere dot in the sky, tens of thousands of feet, pushing into the upper atmosphere. Malvolio could not believe what had just happened. “What have you done?” Green Lantem stared grimly at Malvolio. “I’m willing to let her die for what I believe in. Are you?” The memory of his first loss once more vivid in his mind, burning like real pain, Malvolio shot into the air, determined to rescue the woman. He would not lose the only other love of his life. The plane was hundreds of miles away now, and far up in the atmosphere. Malvolio had seconds to find her. Mustering all of his energy, he blasted upward off the island and into the thin, freezing air miles above the Earth.

The Green Lantem knew he had bought himself only seconds and turned to the first Sleeper. Although the soldier was made incredibly, viciously strong by Malvolio’s ring, without his leader to give him guidance he lacked the imagination to outthink the Lantern. The Sleeper charged but stumbled when Green Lantern feinted.

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Gathering himself, the Sleeper shot a blast of energy at the hero, but once again he was faster, and blocked the blast by diving behind another Sleeper, who took the shot full-force. Green Lantern's movements were erratic and the Sleeper quickly expended much of his energy blasting trees and rocks. Before the Sleeper could regroup, the Lantern moved quickly and, with the last of his ring’s energy, he struck, slamming the Sleeper through the chaos of the fighting, into the cave mouth. But it was not enough: the Sleeper unemotionally and calmly stepped back out of the cave and came at Green Lantern. Although Scott had blasted the Sleeper with all of his remaining power, the Sleeper had enough strength to resist. And as the Sleeper’s power slowly recharged, he prepared to crush the now-depleted Green Lantern. But before he could do so, a shattering explosion blasted the Sleeper backward. Green Lantern turned and saw the muzzle of a Pack Howitzer, smoking from the round it had just fired at the Sleeper. Marines rushed forward to attack. Among them, showing them the way, was Paul Shustak. They met eyes for a moment—enough for Green Lantern to relay his thanks with a look-then he quickly pulled the ring off the stunned Sleeper and used its energy to give a charge to his ring. If he was lucky it would be enough to defeat the next Sleeper. But it sure helped to have the United States Marine Corps on his side.

The sight outside the Avenger’s cockpit was surreal: Irene saw that

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they were high, higher than any aircraft had gone before, and before she fainted she struggled to understand what she was seeing. Malvolio cursed as he flew to catch the aircraft. If she were dead, he would wreak revenge on all of Earth. Finally, he could see the aircraft as it hurtled through the upper atmosphere. Malvolio knew he would have only one chance at saving her. Mustering all of the energy possible, he shot out a bolt of pure plasma. Like a bolt of lightning, it flew across the atmo­ sphere. Thousands of miles away, eveiyone on the tiny atoll saw what looked like a gigantic bolt of green lightning arc across the sky.

Green Lantern, surrounded by supporting Marines, fought desper­ ately against the Sleepers in hand-to-hand combat. The desperation of the fight weighed heavily in the humid air as men struggled to kill supermen. The Sleepers were superior in every way, but without Malvolio’s leadership to drive them, their efficiency in killing was weak. Green Lantern was using this to his advantage. With the little power gained from the first Sleeper’s ring, he focused on one point of the next Sleeper he encountered-his eyes-and used the energy to blind him. That, combined with a direct hit from a bazooka round, stunned the Sleeper. Green Lantern incapacitated another Sleeper with a blade-like blow to the spine, just below the neck. Once again, he was able to retrieve the remaining energy from the Sleeper’s ring. A loud explosion rippled the air above the men. Malvolio was returning to the atoll, carrying the fuselage of the Avenger and carefully lowering it to the ground.

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The Sleepers disengaged from combat and formed a defense perimeter around Malvolio and the aircraft. The Marines and Green Lantem prepared to attack. Paul was ready to lead them forward when the Lantern saw the airplane and stopped them. Malvolio spoke to his enemies. “If she is dead, everyone will pay. Every one!” Malvolio levitated above the Avenger’s fuselage and ripped open the cockpit windshield, peeling it back. There, the limp body of Irene lay slumped forward. Malvolio lifted her out of the aircraft and lowered himself, care­ fully placing Irene on the ground. He tenderly moved strands of her hair from her face. Malvolio wept at the sight of her. “Live. Please. Please be alive.” Irene’s eyelids fluttered. Then, with a shaip inrush of breath, her eyes opened. A moment of recognition, and she clawed at Malvolio’s face and scrambled away. Malvolio was shocked by the attack. “Irene—my darling... ” Irene tried to get away from Malvolio and to the American soldiers she saw in the clearing, but the Sleepers —muscles strained and bulging, eyes blank and glaring, stopped her. She froze and drew back. Malvolio stepped toward her. She turned, ready to defend herself. “Get away from me,” Irene hissed. “Why?” “Murderer.” “Any more than anyone here? I did this for you!” “Don’t you dare say that,” Irene said.

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“I saved you. From him!” Malvolio pointed at Green Lantern. Irene didn’t care. “I know what you are. I’d rather be dead than with you.” Malvolio saw that she meant this. “Let her go.” The zombied Sleepers stepped aside, suddenly treating her as if she were never there. Irene did not hesitate to run to Green Lantern, but instead of throwing herself in his arms, she stopped short and slugged him hard. It was his turned to be stunned. “You did that, didn’t you?” Irene said. “Threw me into space like that-like bait. You knew he’d come after me.” She pointed to the dead pilot, still in the cockpit. “You killed him and almost killed me to play out this game. I’d rather be dead than be with either one of you.” She moved past the Marines. “This whole thing is a joke. All of it. The killing. If you can’t see that you’re no better than the monster you’re fighting. I’ve seen enough.” And she turned and walked into the jungle, toward the beach, a boat and a way back home.

“You heard the lady.” All eyes turned to Malvolio. Like the moon, he had turned to a darker phase and all tenderness and humanity had completely and finally been extinguished from his soul. “All of these years gone by. All of this sophisticated machines. And still you’re as stupid as men were in my time. Petty. Blind.

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None of you are worthy of ray rule. When we’re done there won’t be one of you left alive. Sleepers—begin.” The Sleepers moved toward the Marines. Green Lantern held up his hand and the Marines dropped down and aimed their weapons, ready to fire. Malvolio glowered at them. “Fools.” The Green Lantern dropped his hand down. “Fire!" A blast of small arms and machine gun fire roared from the ragged ranks of Marines. The Sleepers collapsed, flew back, sound­ lessly dying. Some were simply cut in half or shot to pieces from the gunfire. Malvolio’s expression went from icy intent to utter confusion. The Green Lantern walked forward until he was face to face with Malvolio. He threw a handful of objects at the dusty ground—they were the rings. Malvolio glared at his enemy. “So you’ve managed to take the rings from my army. You probably even managed to charge your ring from theirs. But I won’t need them now—even with the energy you’ve leeched from them, you still won’t have enough power to stop me. I’ve beaten you at every turn, and now, with nothing left, I know I don’t need them to defeat you. Prepare to meet your doom.” Malvolio’s body grew, contorting and expanding until he was thirty feet tall: monstrous, evil and full of ferocious rage. He struck out at Green Lantern and smashed him, throwing him one hundred yards through the air to smash against a coconut tree, cutting it in half from the force. The Lantern was amazed at the Malvolio’s strength—his will was

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pure now, undistracted by love. Everything to Malvolio was concen­ trated now: his desire for revenge and destruction, and his hatred. The Green Lantern knew he wasn’t strong enough to stop him. Malvolio flew to Green Lantern’s side, picked him up, and hurled his body thousands of feet into the air. He then flew above Green Lantern and with a mighty blow, smashed him earthward. When Scott hit the ground, dirt exploded and cratered as if a 200-pound artillery shell had struck. Marines were blasted into the jungle. Green Lantern had protected himself with the ring’s energy, but the green coating of plasma energy surrounding him was beginning to fade. He was losing focus, the onrush of his life came to him as he lay dying. A woman’s face came into focus. His mother. She was speaking to him but he could not make out what she was saying. She spoke calmly, rationally, soothingly. She continued to speak, her lips moving. Green Lantem was amazed at the sight. This was the only one who knew who he was. "... your power... ” He shook his head. He did not understand her. “... your power can do... ” Malvolio smashed his fist into the side of the volcano until he had carved out a massive chunk of rock, the size of tank. The Mar­ ines were frantically pouring a withering fire on him, throwing grenades, firing bazookas, calling in artillery and mortar fire, any­ thing they had to stop him. But none of it was effective—it simply bounced off him or fell, the shrapnel and bullets’ energy spent. Malvolio hurled the rock towards the sea, where, moving as fast as

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an artillery shell, it tore shrieking through the air and smashing into a destroyer, instantly breaking its back from the force. The ship sank in seconds, taking all but a few of its crew down with it. Finally Green Lantern could hear what the apparition of his mother was saying. “Your power can do what his cannot,” she said. “His power can deflect. Yours can absorb.” And Green Lantern knew what she meant. It was what the strange Qwardian being on Planet Hell had been trying to tell him. Things were bouncing off Malvolio because Malvolio, in all his blind, single-minded will, could move his power in one direction: outward. That’s why he needed the Sleepers: because he could not absorb energy. The Green Lantern could use his power to absorb. He would have to open himself up to Malvolio’s attack. It would be dangerous-like anything taken too strong, he could literally overdose from the power. But resistance wasn’t working. He had no choice. Malvolio was hovering above, ready to finish him. Summoning every bit of force he could once again muster, he sent a blast of energy at the Green Lantern so great that the flash blinded whoever was looking directly at it, and the ripple of energy sent men, materiel, jungle foliage and dirt flying. The cloud of dust was impenetrable for minutes. Malvolio waited to see the results of his work, hovering in the air above the crater. What he saw below pleased him: Green Lantern’s hand, ripped from his body, the ring still on the finger. Malvolio lowered himself to the object and picked it up and stared at it.

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“Alas poor Alan. I hardly knew ye.” The ring on the Green Lantern’s hand began to glow. It was a day of surprises for Malvolio. He dropped the hand and it tumbled into the crater. As he stared at the hand, flesh began to grow from the severed portion, first forming a forearm, then the whole arm, then flesh snaking like roots from a trunk of a tree, getting larger, forming a torso, limbs and head until Green Lantern was once again whole. Malvolio could not believe it. But what alarmed him the most was the glowing ring on the Green Lantern’s finger. So he blasted him again. Again the Green Lantern was blown to pieces, but this time the pieces each grew until Malvolio was surrounded by multiple Green Lanterns. This sent Malvolio into a rage and he sprayed his energy like a hose, grabbing the Lanterns and fusing them together in one mass. Malvolio then picked up the huge mass of flesh and energy and flew it deep into the ocean. In minutes they were in the darkest, deepest part of the Pacific. Malvolio could feel the mass squirming as he sought to drive it into the crushing depths. He had no plan; only his hatred and his strength which, for the first time in a long time, he could feel was diminishing from his effort. As he moved down in the blackness of the ocean depths, he felt something around his throat. It was a hand, but it was huge: it easily wrapped around his neck, choking him like a vice. Soon he could not swim any further, and the momentum reversed as the Green Lantern swam Malvolio to the surface. Then, from the silence of the water, Malvolio found himself ripped

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from the waves into the open air. He saw what had grabbed him: it was the Green Lantem, who was now huge: one hundred feet tall. He held Malvolio in the open air above the ocean. They were right in the middle of the invasion fleet, and every ship there was firing on both of them. And as the shells stmck Malvolio, he felt a sensation he hadn’t felt for a long time: pain. Green Lantem was flying Malvolio across the ocean, away from the fleet. Eventually they were out of range of the ships, and the Green Lantem stopped and held Malvolio suspended above the open ocean. Green Lantern’s power super-charged the space around them, sending the heated, moist air shooting thousands of feet up to the cold atmosphere above, instantly creating massive, unstable thunderheads. Within a minute the sky was dark with storms and light­ ning crackling around them. Green Lantem glared at Malvolio, full of fury. The newly charged power crackled from him, the force of it bowling the ocean water below them, pushing it away, a smooth 200-foot wide crater in the middle of the storm-tossed ocean. “Have you given me everything you have?” Green Lantern asked Malvolio.

*

The wind and rain of the Lantern’s artificial storm whipped around them as he awaited Malvolio’s response. Malvolio had no explanation for how it had all turned against him and he knew he would not get one from the Green Lantern. But he could not help to ask. “How?”

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“You were giving it all away. So I accepted it.” Malvolio, whose whole being was about using and resisting force, did not understand the concept of acceptance. Until now. The Green Lantern continued. “And now, are you ready accept your fate?” Malvolio was defeated. “Yes.” Green Lantern summoned his energy to destroy Malvolio, vaporize him to subatomic particles. Malvolio would feel no pain because he would be dead faster than his mind would register the event. Unlike all that he had killed, his death would be the most painless possible. Green Lantern was ready. Malvolio was as well. As executioner and executed, they were about to bond in an intimacy greater than family, friends or lovers. They would share death. “Stop.” Above them was a Guardian, the same strange little man that Scott had spoken to during his time away from Earth. The Guardian was grim and cold. “I’ve come for Malvolio.” “He’s mine.” “He belongs to the Guardians and Oan. You are not a member of the Corps.” “What does that matter? My purpose was to defeat h im -let me finish what I was told to do!” But the Guardian was insistent. “He comes with me.” Before Green Lantern could say or do anything, he felt the incredible power of the Guardian as he took over Scott’s hold of

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Malvolio. Scott watched as the two ascended into the blue of the twilight sky, then into the blackness of space. Then they were gone. And Alan Scott was once again alone.

CHAPTER

28 G

reen Lantern searched out the remaining Sleepers that left the island. He knew that the invasion occurring in tandem was on the island of Iwo Jima.

His strength sapped from battling Malvolio, he pushed himself to find the last Sleeper and confiscate his ring before any more harm could be done. He changed directions to an island on the western horizon, a small flat gray smudge with a looming volcano on one end. The island itself was ringed by another invasion force of massive proportions. Flying over the ash-covered atoll, he saw the forces of Marines swarming the island like it was an anthill, and the occasional puff from a grenade explosion and spewing of sooty fire from a flame thrower told the Green Lantern that the battle was far from over. The Marines were trying to flush the Japanese defenders from endless tunnels and bunkers laced throughout the island. As the battered Green Lantern watched, men were still being cut down by snipers and artillery being lobbed in from unseen positions across

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the island and on the volcano at the tip of the island. Whatever he'd gone through with his super powers, these Marines were suffer­ ing much worse. He decided to do what he could before he sought out the Sleepers. Green Lantern set down at the base of Mount Suribachi and moved along the ragged lines of Marines desperately making their way up the steep, black sandy slopes. Sniper fire and grenades were lobbing down at them with regularity, and staying in any one place was inviting death. Tom between helping the Marines and finding the Sleeper, the Green Lantern moved towards the direction of fire. He figured that that Sleeper would be in full battle mode, programmed by Malvolio to center on the heart of the combat and create a radius of destruction that moved outwardly. The fiercest fighting seemed to be at a complex of bunkers at the base of the volcano. Moving slowly upward, Green Lantem saw Marines making superhuman efforts to advance in the fire, and Japanese soldiers popping out to lob grenades and shoot. The behavior of these men was not normal in any way; finding the Sleepers in this would be difficult. A shell went off just feet away from the Green Lantem, knocking an advancing column of Marines off their feet. He saw a Marine lying in a shallow foxhole, curled up and weeping and went to pull him up before more rounds came in. And as the Marine looked up, the Green Lantem knew that it was an ambush. The Sleeper lashed out at him with all the power he could muster, and the surprise attack blasted the hero into the vol­

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canic rock. The Sleeper came at him completely bent on killing him, bent on destroying the destroyer of Lord Malvolio. Green Lantern struck back blindly, try to defend himself with the last of his strength. He rolled to get away, but in the chaos of the battle around him, he could find no safety. Desperate to buy himself some time, his hands searched through the volcanic ash for a weapon. He touched the handle of an entrenching tool. Green Lantern knew that the tool alone would not harm the supercharged Sleeper, so he channeled the last of his energy into the blade of the shovel, forging and sharpening it to a fine, diamond-hard edge. The Sleeper made one last, mad charge at him, and before he could close, Green Lantern swung the shovel upward, the powerstrengthened edge of the blade catching the Sleeper across the chest. The Sleeper literally flew down the slopes of the volcano and came to rest against an abutment of jagged lava rock. The Lantern tried standing but found that the pain was too great. Looking down at his filthy, dust-covered suit, he realized he was much more gravely injured than he had imagined: fear, anger and adrenaline had allowed him to ignore his wounds until now. He collapsed in the volcanic dust. A hundred yards down the slope, the Green Lantern’s last threat—the lone Sleeper-lay wounded as well, mortally injured from the blade. Having failed at carrying through Malvolio’s primary orders, the mortally wounded Sleeper sought to accomplish his final defensive objective: prevent Green Lantern from obtaining the source of his power.

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Seeing a corpsman working through the wounded, he cried out feebly: “Medic... ” The medic made his way to the Sleeper and examined him. “Hang in there, fella-help is on the way... ” The medic continued his patter as he tried to help, but the dying Sleeper was no longer listening: he feared the Green Lantern coming for him. He reached out, grabbed the medic fiercely and leaned into the boy’s face. “The ring!” The medic looked confused. “Did you say ring?” “This ring! Take it.” The Sleeper thrust the glowing ring into the medic’s hands. The medic said something more but the Sleeper wasn’t listening. “You, Medic—you take the ring!” No longer wearing the ring, the Sleeper quickly succumbed to his wounds. The young Medic’s name was Eddie Roach. He did what he could for the dying marine, then moved on to help others, pocketing the ring. The Green Lantern lay in the sooty dirt of the volcano and slowly healed himself, using newfound discipline in channeling the power. The surprise attack of the Sleeper told him that he was still vulner­ able and that the power in anyone else’s hands was not trivial. He dragged himself to his feet and went to find the wounded Sleeper. He found him dead against the volcanic rock, his body ripped open by the power of the Green Lantern’s improvised blade. Bending down to examine the marine, Green Lantern saw the yellow ring was missing. He tried to trace the energy of the ring but the chaos of the battle

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continuing to rage around him and his own exhaustion prevented any discovery. Not finding it, he left to get the other rings before they, too, were lost.

Irene had watched the battle from the beach and now helped the wounded Marines as they were triaged and loaded onto LSTs to be sent to the hospital ship anchored in the lagoon. A green flash happened in the horizon, and eveiyone turned with fear. Then they saw Green Lantem flying over the waves toward them, without Malvolio. The men on the beach cheered as the hero flew by, and he waved his thanks back to them. Green Lantem dropped down into the clearing, where the bodies of the Sleepers and soldiers still lay scattered. As he bent down to gather up the rings, he saw something else amidst the wreckage—a green metallic object half-buried in the fine dirt. He brushed away the dirt and pulled it up—it was the green lantem. He didn't know how or where it had come from, but he had a pretty good idea. He picked it up, accepting the gift without comment. “Was it worth it?” He turned to see Irene behind him. She waved her arms at the carnage. “All of this death. For those?” “It was worth getting them away from him,” he replied. “Why?” Green Lantem held up the rings. They were glowing fiercely. “Malvolio didn’t know the true power of these rings, but he would have discovered it in time. He believed that I had drawn the power out. With one of these, if we believe it, it happens. And if we don’t, it doesn’t. It all comes down to will.”

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The two were left with this troubling thought. “What about me?” Irene asked. “Were you comfortable sacrificing me?” “No. But it was the only card I had to play. I’m sorry.” “That’s all you can offer? ‘I’m sorry?”’ “Yes.” “You're not human.” “I’m not offered human choices.” “And for that, I’m sorry.” Irene and the Lantern looked at each other and, although they stood close enough to touch, the distance between them was closer to forever. After a moment, she turned her back and walked away. Alan thought for a moment to call out to her, but he realized he did not know what he’d say. Instead he gathered up the glowing rings. He’d need to make sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands or on the wrong fingers. This was now his responsibility and he had work to do. Green Lantern held up the source of his power. Touching his ring to it, the ring and lantern seemed to energize each other, and both glowed with renewed strength. Behind him were sounds of reinforcement and securing of the island. Seabees were already using captured bulldozers to flatten out the bomb craters on the runway. The drones of Navy bombers and fighters reverberated through the sky. Soon those carrier-based planes would be taking off and landing on the island airstrip the Marines had fought so valiantly to secure. He walked past beaches being cleared of destroyed vehicles and equipment, past wounded men being evacuated, and bodies being

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stacked. Witnessing this he came to understand that it would all be repeated. Soon there would be another island with another airfield, more casualties, more heroism, more loss. This battle was won but the war was very far from over. Alan Scott, the Green Lantern, heard and felt this all. And as he took in these sights, for the first time in a long time, he spoke these words: “And I shall shed my light over dark evil, For the dark things cannot stand the light, The light of the Green Lantern.”

EPILOGUE

“Why don’t you get a real silverware drawer? It’s the twenty-first century for God’s sake!” “What does that have to do with how I arrange my flatware? And what’s to arrange? One fork, one knife, one coffee mug.” “Do you need to have that cat corpse nailed to the closet wall?” “It’s a carcass. And yes, I do. It pleases me, Jade. It reminds me of things.” Jade poured herself coffee from the battered percolator into the one mug that her father owned. The mug was as ancient as everything else in his apartment: a relic of past times. The mug had a nearly faded logo on it: Dekker Industries. “I really need to get you a coffee press.” Alan Scott tossed the Sunday paper down on the ottoman, giving up on finishing his crossword puzzle. “Jade, why exactly are you here? If you hate my apartment so much, why visit? We’ve got some great hotels here in Gotham and it’s not like you can’t afford it.” Jade eased into her father’s battered leather club chair, creased from years of sitting, and threw her leg over the chair’s arm. She smiled as she sipped her father’s instant coffee, pleased to have finally gotten his attention. “There are certain things I like about staying with you, Alan. This chair for instance. Can I have it?”

310

Sleepers

311

“No, you can’t have it! And don’t call me Alan.” “Do you really want me to revert to Daddy?” “Dad. Father. Pater. But I don’t go for this first name stuff.” Jade mock pouted. “Why are you all so hung up? You’d think with all your power and prestige you wouldn’t worry about stuff like that.” “And why do I have a feeling that this speech isn’t for me?” “Who’s it for then?” Scott arched an eyebrow—it was his turn to needle. “Where’s your boyfriend?” Jade stared down into her coffee, assuming nonchalance. “Kyle? He has the same issues as you, I suppose. Maybe that’s why I was attracted to him. Because deep down inside he reminds me of you, Daddy.” Scott jumped to his feet, having spilled coffee on himself at Jade’s last parry. “Okay, enough of that Freudian crap. Daughters. Why didn’t I have a son—all I’d have to worry about is stolen liquor and wrecked cars. Okay, you’re mad at Kyle, right? You want me to talk to him?” It was Jade’s turn to jump to her feet. “Don’t you dare! You stay out of this!” “Stay out of what? Look, if you’re gonna come here and bust my chops, I have a right to do something about it. You said it-h e and I are alike—I’ll go and chat him up, see what’s eating you.” No longer playing, Jade grabbed her father’s arm and looked at him with gigantic eyes, pleading. “Please D ad-don’t.” Scott relaxed and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

312

Green Lantern

“Okay, honey. I’ll stay out of it.”

Kyle wasn’t crazy about the commute, but the view from his pad was outstanding. The highest point of the moon wasn’t very high, but within the bubble keeping the vacuum of space out, he had enough room for a plasma-screen television and a comfortable recliner. He could watch the game in peace, and the cooler was in easy reach. The Earth rising from the horizon gave him a sense of serenity. That and the knowledge that no one-especially Jade-knew he was up here. Tranquility Base was a good name indeed. Kyle held up his beer to the ancient, gold-foil-covered Apollo lander sitting in the moon dust outside his bubble, the American flag jauntily planted nearby. “Well done, Colonel Armstrong, sir, and the NASA genius who thought of its name. Tranquility indeed.” “What’s the score?” “AHHH!” Kyle flopped off his recliner-he wasn’t used to having anyone sneak up on him, let alone get the drop on him. Alan Scott helped himself to the cooler. Kyle was miffed by getting jumped by the old codger. “You scared the beejezus out of me, Alan.” “Please, Kyle. Call me Mister Scott.” “Sorry, sir. But I think you did that on purpose, which is really uncool. And go ahead and help yourself to a beer.” Scott had downed half of it by the time Kyle’s sarcasm was complete.

Sleepers

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Scott let out a loud belch. “So what’s all this hasarai between you can Jade?” “Do I really have to go into this with you?” “C’mon—it’s halftime.” Kyle lay down on the floor, looking up at the old man in the recliner. “You’re gonna laugh.” “I doubt it. You’re a hell of a superhero, kid, but you’re no Don Knotts.” Kyle let out a breath. “Look, I love Jade. But... ” Scott stared down at the young man. “’But?’ You better finish that sentence about my daughter before I start beating you like a drum... ” Kyle looked up at Scott. His expression was earnest, confused and pained. “... but I’ve come to realize that I’m not who I thought I was. And I’m afraid the person she thinks she loves doesn’t exist. There’s who people think we are, and then there’s the smallness of our actual selves.” Scott stared into the young man’s eyes. “And you’re afraid that you’re not good enough for her.” “I know I’m not. I’m no super hero, Alan. I’m just a guy who lucked into some freak power.” “Don’t let the Guardians hear you talking like that. But I’ll set you straight. You’re in a good place, Kyle. That’s all I can tell you. As for Jade, no one is good enough for her, but you’ll have to do.” Like everything Scott said to Kyle, Kyle wasn’t sure what to take seriously. It’s what he found infuriating and endearing about him.

314

Green Lantem

Scott put a fatherly hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “I’d like to go on, but I can’t.” “I understand—a journey to self-discovery starts with one’s in tern al-11 Nah, none of that crap. The second half s starting-turn it up.” Kyle turned up the volume and the roar of thousands of stadium fans poured from the speakers. “Kyle—one more thing?” Scott held up the empty beer bottle. “You’re out. This time, get something imported, okay?” Kyle sighed, donned his suit and prepared for the long flight back home.