Superman and Man: Part 2
by DarkMark
Getting on the elevator was a triumph. Being jostled by half a dozen passengers was a triumph. Walking down Clinton Street, feeling the pavement beneath his feet, saying hello to people who called him Clark (Clark!), stepping around and within the herd that made a living wall of the sidewalk, this was a triumph indeed.
He walked around the block, twice. The doorman gave him a funny look. He just smiled.
It was one of the happiest days of his life.
He wanted to throw up his arms, to shout, to see if he could turn handsprings. And he could, if he had the space, if he dared. But Superman had a secret identity. Not secret at all to the people of the actor's world; everybody who knew about Superman knew that he was Clark Kent. Here, however, it was a Deep Dark Secret. It would not be good for the people around him, or himself, for the secret to be revealed.
Not like his own world...
Dana.
Will, his son. Matthew and Alexandra, his stepchildren.
The actor stopped, dead still, and got jostled in the back by somebody behind him. "‘Scuse it, buddy," said the guy who had bumped him.
"Quite all right," he said, and stepped into a doorway. He stared out at the passing crowd with blank eyes.
His family. How could he abandon his family?
Well, technically, he had not abandoned them. He had been kidnapped--make that bodynapped--into the corpus of the Man of Steel. But his wife, his children...they had been his life, even before the accident.
How could exchanging them for a mobile, Kryptonian body be a fair trade?
The actor looked up at the sky between the tall buildings of Clinton Street. "Whoever you are, however you've done this," he muttered, "it's not fair. It's not right. I want my family. Now."
But there was no response. He stood and waited till a lady opened the door from behind and dislodged him.
He walked over to the apartment building he had just left, nodding to the doorman. "Mister Kent," said the doorman, "ain't you goin' to work today?"
"Work?"
"Yeah," said Frank. "Work." He paused, then looked closely at the actor. "Mister Kent, are you feelin' all right today?"
He felt like taking his glasses off and massaging the bridge of his nose. But letting somebody see you without glasses, and letting them know you looked Just Like Superman...no.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just a little under the weather, I guess." He smiled. "Guess I'd better get back to the Daily Planet."
"Didn't think you worked for ‘em that much anymore," said Frank. "Ain't you doin' the evening news no more?"
He stopped, dead still. Of course. He was still thinking movie, not comic books. If this reality reflected the comic book Superman's world, Clark Kent was a TV newscaster, not just a newsprint reporter. Even he knew that.
"Right," said the actor. "Talk to you later."
He turned, not wanting to look at the doorman anymore, and scanned the street for a yellow cab. He squinted, sighted one coming in the right direction, and stepped to the curb with his arm upraised to hail it.
It was only a few minutes later, when the cab arrived, that he realized the hack had been six blocks away when he saw it.
Telescopic vision. Just like in the comic books. He hadn't even known he was using it.
"Where to?" asked the cabbie, an Indian immigrant who was developing a Metro accent.
The actor hesitated, then said, "The Daily Planet. Do you know where that is?"
"Shoo," said the driver, pulling away from the curb.
He settled back into the seat and interlaced his fingers. The only Daily Planet he knew of was populated by Jackie, Margot, and a horde of extras. It was a safe bet that the real Perry White, Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen, and company didn't look a thing like them.
He just hoped someone up there could tell him what he was supposed to do.
****
The movie had ended.
There was so much that they'd gotten wrong. So incredibly much. General Zod had been given the role that Jax-Ur played among the real Phantom Zoners. Ursa was a poor man's version, apparently, of Faora Hu-Ul. As for the strongman Non, no counterpart existed for him among the prominent Zoners.
Lex Luthor was played more as a clown than as the serious threat he'd proven himself to be, time and again, since the days of Superboy. As far as Superman knew, Lex had never had a mistress before Wanda Nordo. Nor did he normally associate with losers or softies such as Eve and Otis. A man who could invent robots, spaceships, and super-weapons had no need of them.
He also wouldn't have been so easily suckered by Kryptonite.
Nor could he have turned the world backwards by flying around it in a counterorbital direction. Even if he could turn it in such a way (theoretically, he supposed his old body could have, by sheer muscle power), it wouldn't have reversed time, and it would have destroyed the Earth.
If he had wanted to change history, he would have taken a trip back in time himself, by spinning himself at hyperlight speed. Except that he knew he couldn't change history. If Lois had died because of his negligence, she would have stayed dead.
But even he was caught up in the impact of the movie-Superman's grief at that moment, his shout of denial, his defiance of his father's image, and his valiance at doing whatever he could to resurrect Lois. If he had been in such a situation, and if he had the power to diverge the timestream, he admitted he would have done so, too.
Worse yet was the implication that only three danger spots were created by the California quake activity Luthor had created. In reality, many more people would have been endangered by fault line quakes, and even he wouldn't have been able to save them all. He could have done more than just damming a river and pushing up a bus, though.
In the movie, Clark Kent hadn't even attended college. And Perry White had given him a job? If he'd tried that without his journalism degree, Perry would have put his application in File 13 and that would have ended it.
The girl who played Lois tried to do a decent job, and was amusing, in her way, but that wasn't the Lois he knew. Jimmy, though, had been a little like the gosh-wow kid of the movie in his early days. Now he was tougher, smarter, a lot more capable customer, and often able to handle himself in danger without calling on Superman. The real Perry was gruffer than Jackie Cooper's version, even though he liked the portrayal.
The best part of the show, in his viewpoint, was the section dealing with Clark Kent's teenage years. Sure, it wasn't accurate. Jonathan Kent had sold the farm and bought a general store in Smallville shortly before Clark started school. But still, the small-town ambience, the pastoral scenery, the girl who played Lana--no more accurate than anything else, but it was nice to see her portrayed--and the attempt to show what growing up with super-powers, and having to conceal them, did to young Clark's psyche resonated mightily with Superman. It hadn't been like that, but it was close enough.
The death scene with Jonathan Kent had hit him like a wrecking ball of Krypton metal. Sure, the real Pa Kent hadn't died like that. He had passed on with his wife, of a tropical disease, in Clark's senior year of high school. But just seeing Pa grab his arm and fall, and then seeing young Clark with his mother at the funeral, lamenting that, even with all his powers, he couldn't save him
(And with all your powers, you couldn't save either of them, could you?)
brought new tears to Superman's eyes. The rest was so much fantasy...a shard of Krytonian computer generating the Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic? Sheol, he'd had to build that with his bare hands...but he had to admit that Jeff East, whose name he had picked up in the credits, was the best actor of the entire bunch.
Then, finally, he'd gotten to see himself. Or, at least, his body, on screen.
The first instance was in the "first flight" sequence, where the computer programmed with "Jor-El's" likeness bid him goodbye. Initially, he had scoffed. If "Krypton's" dress was so monochromatic, white with some black for effect, how in the name of Mother Moon would he have been outfitted with a costume of blue, yellow, and red? But he had to admit that, from a distance, the actor looked the part. Not a duplicate, by a long sight. But a reasonable substitute.
Then a cut to the Daily Planet, and he'd had a chance to see him as Clark Kent. Well, he did a decent job at that. He couldn't tell how well he'd played Caspar Milquetoast in the past. It was a pose that started in late grade school, not long after he'd started appearing as Superboy. Dad Kent had told him to act as somebody who was physically on the weak side, nonagressive, the kind of fellow nobody was supposed to believe could be the Boy of Steel. Because, after all, anybody who knew Clark beyond one-time acquaintance knew he looked a lot like the guy in the costume.
It worked, to an extent. The problem was that people became used, by consuming mystery novels and films and radio plays and TV shows, to expecting the least-expected guy to be the suspect. There were also only so many boys in Smallville who could be candidates for Superboy's alter ego. Lana Lang had made a full-time career of trying to expose him, thwarting which occupied a lot of his time. When he could get out and move to Metropolis, with millions of people to help and hundreds of thousands of men who might be Superman, it was somewhat of a relief.
He did remember how, once, his dad got so fed up with hearing his son called a weakling that they moved to another town, assumed new names, and let Clark be a he-man for awhile, but it didn't work out. There was another time in which he decided to abandon his powers, reduced himself to normal humanity by a controlled Kryptonite treatment, and took on Bash Bashford, school jock supreme, in a boxing match. Clark had taken a decent pounding, but the rush he'd gotten by facing the creep on equal terms and finally laying him out flat with an uppercut was something he remembered to this day.
But he realized he had to become Superboy again, and managed to restore his powers. So it had been, more or less, to the present day. Now, he covered for his Superman missions by faking stomach upsets, and wondered if the crew on the nightly news were still buying his excuses or suspecting he wore a blue suit for underwear.
He snapped out of his reverie. As Clark Kent, the actor had been decent. Even though he hadn't quite acted like that at the Planet, it was a decent approximation. He did bristle when Clark, about to take Lois out, was on the point of revealing his Superman identity. At that point, the real Clark would never have betrayed his alter egoship. But it was a movie, and he supposed some liberties had to be taken.
The sequence with the helicopter was good fun. He found himself wanting to cheer as much as the crowd in the street when "Superman" saved "Lois" from a fall, and caught the falling copter in one hand. Then all the choreographed super-deeds, stopping a boatful of crooks and leaving them and the boat on the street (Inspector Henderson would have had his head for that), busting a human fly on the side of a building, saving Air Force One, getting a cat out of a tree. The special effects were great, and he had to admit the actor did the part justice. Even though Superman should look a bit meaner to the crooks. He wasn't as good as Batman in the scare department, but he wanted the hoods he captured to know that he didn't like what they were doing, and that they were up against somebody who was entirely out of their class.
Then came the bit with the entirely idiotic clown-Luthor and his partners, and Superman wondered why they just hadn't thrown him away and used the Zoners instead as villains.
Altogether, though, he liked the Superman he saw on the screen.
All the while the shhhh pumm of the breathing machine puttered away underneath the soundtrack.
Dana was talking to him. "Chris, can you hear me?"
"Yes," he said, remembering again what a work it was to talk. "I can. Hear you."
"Did the movie help bring back anything? Any memories, I mean?" Her eyes were saying, Please say yes.
He wanted to say, "Yes, but not the kind you're thinking of." Instead he said, "A few. Can you. Tell me. More about. Me?"
She sat down. "Do you want me to get Will? Maybe he'd help you remember."
He made an educated guess. "My son?"
"Yes. Yes, he's your son. I'll have him brought here from school."
"Shouldn't. He be. In it?"
"This is an emergency."
"Not yet," he said. "Tell me. Something."
She waited.
"Was I. A good man?"
An unfeigned smile came to her lips. "Let me tell you all about it. Then you decide for yourself."
****
The cabbie had let him off at the unfamiliar building with the familiar globe on top and he had been glad there was enough money in his wallet to cover it. There were large letters on the building facade: WGBS. The words Daily Planet were in smaller case below it.
He went in, and made a point of smiling to just about everyone. There were the usual ricochets of "Hi, Clark" and "Hi, Mr. Kent". He said "Hi" back, making sure not to call anyone by name. From the response he got, he guessed Kent's fame and good rep must be almost on a par with Superman's. But if he was on the nightly news, a TV reporter in this world, that may have been a given.
He decided to go to the Planet offices, not quite knowing what to do if he got there. But, if the real Perry, Jimmy, or Lois were there (and he could recognize them), maybe he could get a feel for this sort of thing. Perhaps try and discover what had happened to him.
What if they saw through him as the inappropriate mind in this body?
Well, it might turn out to be a good thing. But for now, he had to feel his way through this world. And not betray the secret this body held.
The plate by the elevator told him what floor to go to. The "Hi, Clark"s didn't stop within the car itself. A blonde man who was a bit thinner and taller than him seemed to know him well. "Hi, Clark," he said. "Edge wants to see you pronto."
"Hi," he said, leaning over to shake the man's hand, an act which the man seemed to find surprising. "What about?"
"I should know? Edge is Edge, Clark. You know that. You find out when you get on his carpet, not around the water cooler."
"Oh. Okay." Whoever this Edge person was, he must be analogous to Howard Hughes around this place. "I have to go to the Planet first, then I'll see him."
The other gave him a strange look. The actor was getting used to them. "Whaddya have to go to the Planet for?"
"Because," he said.
The man shrugged. "Just make sure that's a pretty good because, Clark. Morgan Edge doesn't like waiting too long."
A first name, good. "I'll, uh, try not to keep him too long."
Josh Coyle saw Clark give a sudden start. "Clark. Something wrong with you? That gut of yours acting up again?"
The actor shook his head. "Oh, uh, no. It's just...yeah, probably is my gut, come to think of it. See you soon."
"See you tonight at prep, I hope," said Josh.
Clark smiled bravely and was very glad his floor came up just then. He got out.
Coyle stood looking at the closing door, shifting among three other people in the elevator. 98 percent of the time, he was sure he understood Kent. Hick from the sticks, makes it big on newspapers and then Dan Rathers it on television news. It happened. God knew, it happened a lot of times.
It was just the 2 percent he wondered about.
Today, he was sure it was growing to 3.
The actor walked, and was surprised how quickly it was for walking to become second nature to him again, towards a glass door with the Planet globe emblazoned on it. A guard nodded hello to him, and he said "Hi" back.
He had no idea what Kent's mannerisms were. He had to be deviating from them somewhat, by people's reactions. But he apparently hadn't done it so badly as to raise more than suspicion.
Well, blazes. Superman wasn't General Eisenhower. On his world, there were no old newsfilms an actor could study to form an approximation of his voice, walk, stance, and tone. All he'd had to go on was his own instinct, the director's instructions, reading a few comics supplied by DC, and memories of George Reeves on TV in the Fifties (and forever after) in, supply the announcer's voice here, "The Ad-ven-tures of...Su-pah-man!"
According to the critics, he hadn't done half bad. And the people who saw it, my God! Everyplace he'd gone after that, it was "Superman! Superman! Superman!" He was lucky someone hadn't pulled a gun on him and fired, to see if the bullets would bounce off his chest.
He'd heard some kid really had tried that on George Reeves, way back when. But Reeves had talked the kid out of the gun, saying that the bullets wouldn't hurt him, but could ricochet and strike others. Some moxie.
Then, a few years later, good old George had gone and killed himself.
Some years after he himself had played Superman, he fell off a horse the wrong way, and became paralyzed from the neck down. Obviously, it was not a role without risks.
But he had taken on a number of roles in other movies and on stage, trying to break the Superman hold. He could understand why Sean Connery wanted to leave James Bond behind, and had successfully done so. Could he?
It was too soon to know. The movies, except Somewhere In Time, hadn't done all that well. He might have done better if his face wasn't what it was, movie-idol perfect (even he had to admit it). If he'd been a bit tougher-looking, like Connery or Stallone or you-name-it. Even Harrison Ford had a bit of edge to him. But his face, and the Superman image, had cast him in a certain mold. He wasn't ashamed of playing Superman, he was downright proud of it. But he darned well wanted to be known for more than that.
If the accident hadn't happened...well, maybe.
He was known for his activist work, and he was most proud of that. Now he was active in another direction, and he had to believe his work on behalf of victims of spinal injuries was making a difference.
On another world.
The reason he had given a start in the elevator was this:
On this very evening, in that other world, he was to be delivering a speech at a local fundraiser for the cause. Now he would not be there, unless he somehow did another body-switch.
He could only assume, perhaps incorrectly, that
(Say it)
the mind of Superman had been transferred into his own body as well.
God, that had to be a rough row to hoe.
But the speech would not get made, now, and he wondered if Superman would be able to cope. If this went on for very long, the work he had done for the cause would slowly halt. It required a front man like himself, with his fame and curious unblessing, to carry it forward.
Now, what was he to do but figure out what was expected of Clark Kent and Superman in this world, and try to get on with it?
Prison. Superman as prison.
All these thoughts went through his head as secretaries and reporters looked up and said, "Hi, Clark!" or "Hi, Kent!" (Never Mr. Kent) and he walked automatically forward. None of the faces were ones he could recognize, even from comic books.
Someone was walking through the door of an inner office. A balding, brown-haired man with white temples, smoking a cigar furiously. The man had his head down, but brought it up to look at the actor with confirmation.
"Great Caesar's Ghost, Kent," the man exploded. "What're you doing down here? Edge wants you upstairs and I've got a paper to run."
Perry White.
Inwardly, he congratulated himself for recognizing the man. "Just wanted to, uh, check and see if Lois was free, Perry. Is she around?"
"She's your wife, not mine. Don't you know she's out on assignment? If she hasn't checked in with you, she hasn't checked in with me."
"My...wife?"
Perry gave him the epidemic Funny Look again. "Yes. Your wife. Don't you remember?"
A black man with a coat slung over his shoulder came up to the both of them. "Morning, Clark. Hear from Lois yet?"
"Dave Stevens, you've got a column to turn out," said Perry, through a cloud of cigar smoke. "In 25 minutes."
"Thought I had an hour, Chief," protested Dave. "What happened to that?"
"The government just reduced the length of the fiscal hour. Now get moving!" He grabbed his cigar with two fingers and bellowed, "And DON'T CALL ME CHIEF!"
Dave Stevens. One must remember these names, and the faces to which they were attached, and what those people did. He had a good memory--actors had to--but he had to play undercover man as well. That was the tough part.
As casually as he could manage, the actor said, "I don't recall just what Lois was assigned to, Perry. You know how busy I've been, lately."
Perry White looked at him in total disbelief.
"I knew it," he said. "Being on television has utterly undone your mind. Your wife is doing a story on the escape of Lex Luthor from federal prison, and you don't remember it?"
****
Dana had told him some of the things the man who occupied this body had done.
He had become a quite successful actor, thanks to the Superman movies. He had used this fame, money, and image power to do good things in the world in which he lived. He became a spokesman for an arts council, raising his voice against censorship. He helped fight for unpolluted water in New York, meeting with the state's governor. He went to Chile, at a time when a dictatorship had marked a list of actors for execution within the week, and helped spearhead a protest against the action. He was active in progressive politics, though not a radical.
But more than that were the number of acts of common kindness Dana had told him about, given to people who knew him little, or not at all, only as Superman.
And more than that was the achievement that had come since his accident. The creation of a foundation to seek a cure for paralysis induced by spinal injury. His tireless (probably tiring as Sheol) work on behalf of it, though he had to pause between every few words at every speech. The consequent progress of research into such injuries, with the far-off hope of finding a cure.
On top of that, even, was the fact that the actor had not allowed his horrible fate to defeat him. He presented a mood of optimism to the millions who saw him, even in this state, with no motion below his neck and a breathing tube stuffed into his mouth. He had even made a movie in this state, a remake of Rear Window.
It was all but unbelievable.
Dana had showed him some of the letters the actor had received, a wave of outpouring of emotion for the man, from children and performers and professionals and working folk and movie industry people on up to and including the president himself.
It was as if the man were the closest equivalent this world had to a Superman in truth.
Superman's mind sought to evaluate what he had been given. What incredible sense of irony Rao, or whoever placed him here, must have. Was it the work of a villain? He doubted it. Was there a lesson to be learned?
Especially if the actor's mind now resided in Superman's body, a body which could not only breathe unimpaired, but walk, run, do all sorts of things, and do many more which were quite beyond the capabilities of normal men or even other super-heroes?
There had to be.
Dana shuffled some of the letters back into various boxes. "Chris, I have to tell you something," she said. "You were...well..."
"What?"
She sighed. "A fundraiser. For the foundation. You were going to speak there tonight. But, well, let's face it. If you don't know who you are, I don't see how you can do it."
Silence for two seconds.
"I can. Do it," he said.
She opened her mouth to speak.
He silenced her with a look. A look that she couldn't recall ever seeing from her husband before.
"May not. Be man. I. Used to be." He drew another breath. "But still. The man. I am. I'll speak. I will." Another breath. "Speak."
Dana said, quietly, "Are you sure?"
"Superman. Couldn't stop me."
to be continued...