Dedication: A Chlois Fic
A Chlois futurefic, based on Season 7 canon, and on spec from LJ and TwoP. Rated G, about 5,000 words.
If you want to know how Chlois could happen after the Season 7 finale,this is my take. Also, if you've ever wondered what freedoms the First Amendment guarantees, or what the state motto of Kansas has to do with Chlark, this is the fic for you. :)
Feedback = Love. :)
Dedication
When people call me an investigative journalist, I tell them to quit repeating themselves. Everyone in a newsroom, even a gossip columnist, is in the business of uncovering and printing as much of the truth as possible. Investigating is what journalists do, plain and simple.
It only takes one word to describe us, and it’s the only title I’ve ever wanted. I put it in my very first byline, handwritten in red crayon over a story about space aliens: Chloe Sullivan, Reporter.
I smiled as I watched my taxi navigate the traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue while in the background, the brightly-lit dome of the U.S. Capitol rose like a beacon in the night sky. Little had I known, back then, that one day a space alien would change my life.
Not that I’ve ever thought of Clark Kent as an alien. Super-strong? Check. Super-fast? Definitely. Super-mopey? Well, sometimes. He did have a bad habit of blaming himself for stuff that wasn’t his fault, like my arrest by the feds, but we’re working on that, and he’s improving.
As I told him the day I was released from prison (courtesy of the best lawyers Queen Industries could buy), he’s high maintenance, but he’s worth it. In our own way, we’re both crusaders for truth and justice, although whenever I say that, he snorts and gives me this weird look, as if I’m the one from a distant planet.
But even he agrees that we make a great team, in spite of the odd complications that pop up from time to time. Like the need to attend a black-tie gala undercover.
The taxi was slowing down as it rolled past a string of stretch limos parked along the curb; quickly, I adjusted my wig in the rear-view mirror before glancing out the window at a building that seemed to be made almost entirely out of glass. It was ablaze with lights, bathing the gowns and tuxedoes of the A-list partygoers mingling at its entrance in a brilliant glow. The women were draped in enough jewelry to sink a small battleship; the overpowering glint of their diamonds, gold, pearls and platinum hit me like flashbulbs going off at a press conference.
Blinking a little to clear my vision, I looked away, tilting my head to peer up at the inscription on a marble slab that covered one entire side of the building’s imposing façade. Instantly, the crowd vanished from my mind.
The words were familiar, but they never failed to send a reverent shiver down my spine. “Congress shall make no law….”
I knew the First Amendment by heart, so I quickly skipped ahead to my favorite part. “Abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press.”
Feeling like a pilgrim, I stared up at the world’s only museum of journalism. I’d come here to pay my respects to my fellow crusading members of the Fourth Estate, who'd always been my heroes, even though the closest thing any of them had to a superpower was the ability to leap looming deadlines with a single shot of caffeine. For me and my colleagues, this was Mecca, and, for once, I was happy to be nothing more than an anonymous tourist.
Almost anonymous, that is. In the shadows, a little apart from the stream of beautiful people, a slender, auburn-haired figure stood flanked by two large, grim-looking men whose tuxedoes bulged a little, probably from the concealed weapons they carried inside. When she saw me, her face lit up and she waved, stepping forward while her bodyguards discreetly followed close behind.
A lot had happened to all of us since we’d left Smallville, and Senator Martha Kent had exchanged her denim for navy-blue evening wear, but when she smiled, I could still feel the sunshine in her kitchen, and catch the whiff of apple pie in the background. For a minute I almost expected to see Shelby trot up to us with his tail in full gear.
Waving back, I gave the top of my strapless black satin gown a final tug, paid the cabbie, and stepped onto the broad pavement. The warmth of her hug made me forget that we were sharing a street with the D.C. glitterati. I felt as if I’d come home.
“Welcome to the Newseum! I’m glad you could make it to the dedication.” She took in my wig and the corners of her mouth dimpled. “You look nice.”
I grinned back, knowing what she meant. “It makes a good disguise, doesn’t it? Besides, I miss being a blonde,” I said cheerfully, patting the fake curls.
She gave me a ladylike snort. “I don’t know why. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been having plenty of fun as a brunette.” She looked me over again, her eyes softening reminiscently. “But it does take me back.”
I nodded, remembering the last time we’d met before my change of hair color, shortly after I’d been released from jail. It had been at a Congressional inquiry here in D.C. “Thanks again for asking me to testify against the Department of Domestic Security and their creative views on Constitutional rights. I consider it poetic justice that the last official act of ‘Chloe Sullivan’ was to help you stick a pin in their balloon of bluster.”
Her head tilted inquiringly. "Have you ever considered going back to your old identity, your old look? You don't need to hide from them anymore, you know."
I shrugged. "I guess I'm too lazy to start bleaching my hair again. But it's good to know that I could if I wanted to, thanks to you."
Her lips pressed together grimly, and there was a flash of unaccustomed steel in her voice. “The D.D.S. needed to be taught a lesson. Our country can’t afford ‘protectors’ who think they’re above the law. You and Clark know that better than anyone.”
For the thousandth time, I sent up a prayer of thanks that the most powerful being on the planet had been raised by this lady. During her time in D.C., Mrs. Kent might have been forced to play hardball, but she played the game by her own rules, not Lionel Luthor’s. In the Kent universe, might would never trump right.
Her expression lightened suddenly. “Sorry for the soapbox lecture. I’ve been in D.C. too long.”
I smiled again. As far as I was concerned, Martha Kent couldn’t be in D.C. long enough.
“You know, we really ought to thank the D.D.S.,” I told her. “Without them, Clark and I wouldn’t be where we are today.”
Her reply was cut off by the sound of excited whispering nearby. Casting a sideways glance at the crowd, I noticed that more than a few of the guests filing into the building were sneaking looks at us. Discreetly, I ducked behind one of Mrs. Kent’s gargantuan guards. “So much for blending into the crowd.”
She turned a friendly grin in the crowd’s direction, sidling forward just enough to completely block me from their view. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly, still grinning, “they’re staring at me, not you.”
She gestured to the entrance, where a large placard announced proudly, in bolded capitals, “HALL OF HEROES: DEDICATION CEREMONY TONIGHT.” “Shall we?”
A green-shirted museum staffer immediately rushed forward to open the door for us, holding the other guests back while we entered. Nodding apologetically to the crowd, Mrs. Kent whisked me inside. “I hate cutting in line, but we’re running late. I didn’t want you to miss your big moment.”
I shrugged, too busy looking around to reply. The atrium soared five stories high, dwarfing the throngs of people who packed the spaces in between tables piled high with hors’ d’oeuvres and drinks. On one vast wall, a high-def screen that was almost as big as the Daily Planet newsroom showed the latest news from five continents.
Fascinated, I slowed down to watch. “Awesome. It’s like my Wall of Weird on steroids, expanded and improved.”
Martha tugged at my elbow impatiently as a voice boomed over an unseen P.A. system. “Video coverage of the dedication of the Daily Planet Hall of Heroes will begin in five minutes.”
“We’ll be late,” she said again, sounding exactly as if she were lecturing Clark about catching the school bus. At once the guards jumped into action, politely but firmly clearing a path to the elevators.
There was no arguing with Martha Kent in full Mom mode, so with one last wistful glance at the oversized window on the world’s breaking stories, I turned to follow her into the open elevator. “It’s nice of you to give me a VIP escort so I can see the dedication ceremony, but it’s just a small exhibit in the First Amendment Gallery. I really came to see the museum. And,” I added, rushing to match her pace, “to visit the top-floor terrace. I hear the view of the Capitol is spectacular.”
“The exhibit may be small, but it’s important. It wouldn’t exist without you,” she said, skewering me with a stern look as one of the guards punched the ‘Up” button next to the elevator doors. “And neither would the Daily Planet. At least, not in any meaningful form.”
The doors slid open and our little procession filed in. “Besides,” she continued, “Clark will be disappointed if you’re not there.”
“Clark won’t be there either,” I protested, frustrated that I was being dragged away from all these tantalizing attractions to listen to a few boring and predictable speeches.
She raised her eyebrows at me. “Not exactly, anyway,” I said, inwardly conceding defeat.
I don’t crumble easily, but Martha Kent was the exception to every rule.
As we arrived at the fourth floor, there was a soft chime, and the elevator door slid open to reveal a sea of fashionably-attired backs. Once again, the bodyguards did an impressive job of creating space quickly and quietly, and within minutes we were passing under an arched opening into a wider space. Judging from the foot-high chrome-plated letters on the sign hanging from the ceiling, we’d arrived in the First Amendment Gallery.
Without slowing down, Mrs. Kent scanned the displays. “Can you name the five freedoms?”
I stared at her. "The five freedoms guaranteed in the First Amendment," she explained patiently.
I rattled them off automatically. “Religion, assembly, the right to petition for redress of grievances, speech, and the press.”
Something in her look made me tilt my head curiously. “What?”
Her smile was sad. “Nothing. It’s just that you’re one in a thousand.”
There wasn’t time to ask her what she meant. We’d come to the new exhibit, where the crowd was thickest, and as we passed under a miniature spinning version of the Daily Planet’s globe, I spotted several staffers from the newsroom milling around the billboards and interactive videos, wearing bright blue-and-red VIP name tags. To my relief, most of them didn’t give me a second glance.
I’d started to check out the nearest display when a familiar voice sang out in my ear, and my heart sank. “Hey, Bright Eyes!”
I sighed inwardly. I knew my wig wouldn’t fool Jimmy Olsen, but I was hoping he’d at least be able to take the hint and leave me alone. No such luck.
Keeping my expression blank, I stared into that cheerful face. He’d looked the same way when he’d handed me that dimestore plastic ring and proposed marriage.
He hadn’t taken the hint then, either-but, to be fair, I hadn’t made it easy for him. Until that moment, I hadn’t admitted, even to myself, that I’d made up my mind about him long before.
Jimmy was a good kid. But it wasn’t my job to help him grow up. He needed to do that on his own.
“Do I know you?” I asked, and watched his face fall, just as it had when I’d refused his proposal, but this time I felt no guilt at all. A pretty girl appeared at his side, glaring at me, and she tugged him away while I hid a smile.
I turned back to Mrs. Kent, who was inspecting the display I’d noticed earlier. It was a large sign, written in old-style typeface under an antiquated, hand-drawn version of the Planet’s globe, paired with an engraving of the Great Seal of the State of Kansas:
I grinned as I read the piece, remembering Luthorcorp’s brief, and unsuccessful, attempt to roll over those values.
At the other end of the room, people were beginning to assemble on a small raised platform next to an LED screen that was bigger than my living room back in Metropolis. Images flashed across it, but we were still too far away for me to see what they were. Nearby, I recognized a few reporters from the major Metropolis TV stations setting up their newscams.
I raised my brows at Mrs. Kent, who was staring at the state seal with an odd expression. “Aren’t you the one who didn’t want to be late?” I asked, jerking my head at the platform.
There was a gleam in her eye when she turned to me. “I was just thinking about our state’s motto,” she remarked, cryptically. “Don’t you think it’s appropriate?”
I had no clue what she meant, and I didn’t see why we needed to discuss it right now, so I just shrugged.
“ ‘Ad astra per aspera,’ ”she quoted, ignoring my meaningful look at the gathering crowd around the stage. “ ‘To the stars, through hardships.’ ” Her eyes danced as she looked down at me. “It could have been written for you and Clark.”
I shot her a confused look, but there was no time to ask for an explanation. A hush had descended on the crowd as one last burly figure mounted the steps to the dais, and at a gesture from Mrs. Kent, the guards fast-forwarded us straight to the edge of the stage, past a gallery of tributes to former Planet editors and Pulitzer winners like Pauline Kahn and Max Taylor. The name of Grant Gabriel, I noticed, was nowhere to be seen.
We settled into a discreet position near a corner of the stage, out of the range of the spotlights and the camera flashes, as the latest arrival on the platform moved toward the lectern, scowling and yanking at the satin-faced lapels of his rumpled formal jacket as if they chafed unbearably. But he took in his audience with the same keen look he leveled on city beat reporters in the Planet newsroom.
Our eyes met, and his slid past mine with only a hint of a twinkle. I watched him respectfully, and looked forward to the ribbing I’d be giving him later for wearing a tux that was two sizes too big.
I’d known that Perry would understand. This night was about the Planet, not me. The fact that my picture, sans wig, was splashed all over the big screen next to him was beside the point.
He hesitated, peering around the room again as if he were looking for someone. After a minute of dead silence, he shrugged and leaned over the mike.
No sooner had his mouth opened than a sudden burst of wind whipped across the room, shaking the TV newscams and blowing blonde hair all over my face. I moved fast to push my wig back into place as a by-now-familiar blaze of red and blue popped into view on the platform next to Perry.
Everyone except Perry gave a collective gasp. “Glad you could make it, Superman,” he said matter-of-factly, blinking up at the towering figure in the skintight outfit.
Anxiously I looked the new arrival over, picking out the stains on his boots and cape and reminding myself that it was silly to worry about someone who was practically indestructible. As I did, I noticed plenty of other women in the crowd checking Superman out for other reasons, and pressed my lips together to keep from laughing out loud. None of them, in their wildest dreams, would ever connect the musclebound hero striding across the stage with the most mild-mannered reporter in Metropolis.
Mrs. Kent had been right: The best place for Clark to hide-from the D.D.S., from Lex Luthor, and from any other random alien-hunting fanatics-was in plain sight. Between the two of us, we’d managed to turn the Kryptonian equivalent of long johns and red Underroos into, not only the most effective disguise on the planet, but also a worldwide symbol of hope.
We had a right to be proud, no matter how much Clark grumbled about chafing.
Big baby.
“Sorry I’m late,” he was apologizing to Perry in a voice pitched at least half an octave lower than Clark’s normal speaking voice. He took a seat close to the speakers’ podium. “There’s a flood in Indiana.”
“No problem,” Perry rumbled, shuffling a few pieces of paper that, I knew, were covered with squiggles decipherable only by him. “I was just getting started.”
Like a bull getting ready to charge, he jutted his head over the mike and raised his voice so that it carried to every corner of the room. “The sign outside says this is a dedication ceremony. To most people, that’s just fancy talk for ‘Welcome to the party.’ And I’m all for that,” he grinned, lifting a glass filled with a suspiciously amber-colored liquid that bore no resemblance whatsoever to water. “Here’s to the new hall, folks, let’s all have a good time!”
There was a smattering of applause as he put the glass down slowly without taking a sip from it. His grin faded, and he leaned forward, gripping both sides of the podium. “But that’s not what dedication means to me.”
The applause died down, and his voice rang out in the sudden silence. “Dedication is commitment. You can be dedicated to world peace. You can be dedicated to your family, to your career, or to your favorite baseball team. But if you’re a reporter like me, there’s only one thing worth dedicating your life to, and that’s the truth.”
His arm shot out, taking in all the exhibits with a single sweeping gesture. “The people you see here, in this hall, were and are all dedicated to that one thing. They didn’t get into journalism for fame or big bucks. They did it because they believed that a free country has to have a free press, and a free press has a responsibility to keep the public informed.”
He was glaring at the audience, as if he thought the quiet faces were somehow challenging him. “If you want to know what kind of dedication I’m talking about,” he said, jerking his head toward the larger-than-life, warts-and-all picture of me on the screen next to him, “Here it is.”
I’ve never been accused of being modest, but I felt a blush begin to crawl up my cheeks. Even though he’d given me a head’s-up about the tribute, if I’d known I’d feel this uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have come at all.
The fact that Clark had caught my eye and was twinkling at me didn’t help matters. Up to now he hadn’t seemed to notice me at all, but of course he’d probably keyed onto my heartbeat as soon as he’d entered the room. He looked like he was enjoying the speech, which only flustered me even more.
“You all know the name ‘Lois Lane,’” Perry intoned. “But what you probably don’t know is that she got her first Pulitzer-winning expose by risking her life in jail.”
I wasn’t surprised to see puzzled expressions on the faces around me. Of course they didn’t know that, I thought, because it’d been Chloe Sullivan who’d been in jail, not Lois Lane. Lois had been at the Planet, desperately searching for ammunition to bring down Lex.
I was the one who'd found it, in the shape of two lovely, and vengeful, former Luthorcorp employees who’d been sent up the river for the crime of knowing too much. After seeing Lex squirrel away so many victims in places like Level 33.1 and Belle Reve, I’d had a hunch that he might use the Kansas federal pen the same way, and I’d been right.
“She made contacts who could’ve gotten her killed,” Perry went on.
But it wasn’t me who was killed, I thought, looking away from the stage and blinking to clear the sudden moisture in my eyes. My cousin, who’d been too eager to trap Lex in her crosshairs, had wound up squarely in the middle of his--and this time, I hadn't been around to save her. Even if I had, I doubted that I would have been able to; my meteor-induced powers seemed to have deserted me after my run-in with Brainiac.
I felt Mrs. Kent’s hand on my shoulder, and I managed a smile. “She always wanted a big byline,” I murmured quietly. “At least I could give her that.”
She gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “She’d be so proud of you.”
Perry continued. “It was those contacts who gave her the story that she later broke in her blog, the Daily Star, and you all know the rest.” Newsreel clips of demonstrations outside Luthorcorp, interviews with federal prosecutors, and Lex’s arrest raced by on the big screen. “The story triggered a massive federal investigation into Luthorcorp’s illegal experiments, and the Planet got a new lease on life, thanks to the Queen Foundation.” He turned to give a little salute to someone on the platform, and for the first time I noticed Ollie, grinning back at him from the rear of the platform where he’d been sitting half-hidden, obviously unwilling to steal Perry’s spotlight.
“Lois Lane saved our paper because she went after the truth with everything she had, just as she still does today.”
I hoped Perry was winding things up, but I couldn’t help wishing that recorders were permitted in the museum. I could’ve used a tape of this speech to play back the next time he tore apart one of my story ideas.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I mean by dedication.” Relaxing, he gave the crowd a wink. “Now enjoy the show, folks.”
I relaxed, too. “Well, that wasn’t too bad,” I said to Mrs. Kent, shouting to be heard over the thunderous cheering of the guests. “I guess he didn’t think he needed to mention that Lex bought his way back to power.”
When she didn’t reply, I looked in her direction, and caught her sharing what she obviously thought was a private smile with Perry, who’d paused in his trip off the stage just long enough to glance at her. Quickly opening my clutch, I pretended to check my cell phone for messages, while I hid a grin and wondered how long it would take for the two of them to figure out for themselves what Clark and I had seen coming for years.
Meanwhile, Superman was joining the others on stage in a long, enthusiastic standing ovation. I saw a museum official get up and head to the podium to put in his own two cents, and decided I'd heard enough speeches for the evening. It was time for me to get a breath of fresh air.
I peered up at Superman. “Meet me on the top-floor terrace?” I muttered under my breath, saw one corner of his mouth crinkle slightly, and nodded in satisfaction.
********
The view of Pennsylvania Avenue from the museum’s terrace was just as spectacular as I’d heard. To one side, the Capitol dome gleamed under the rising moon, and on the other the Washington Monument soared skyward from behind the darkened office buildings lining the bustling street.
By now, the speeches were winding to a close, and the party would be in full swing downstairs. Once the guests had finished schmoozing and exchanging business cards, they’d head up here to exchange phone numbers, but for now, I had the place to myself.
The soft sound of leather soles scraping against the marble tiles made me turn around.
Clark had exchanged his eye-searing outfit for a nondescript, baggy gray suit and dark-rimmed glasses, but when he looked at me through the thick lenses, it was with the same steady green glow I’d seen in Superman’s eyes. I wondered, again, how it was possible that no one but me could see the connection between the two.
He came up to me and shook my shoulders gently. “Lois,” he sighed, using his own voice this time, “are you insane?”
Patting my blonde wig, I eyed him just as steadily. “Don’t you like it?”
His expression darkened. “I thought we’d agreed. We both need to hide in plain sight. The last thing either one of us needs is to be anonymous.” He cupped my cheek with his big palm. “That’s all the opening Lex needs to grab you. You know he’s starting up Level 33.1 again.”
I knew. But Clark was worrying for nothing. “If Lex wants to add me to his meteor collection, he’ll be disappointed,” I told him. “Whatever powers I had, they fizzled years ago. I haven’t healed so much as a hangnail since before you joined the Planet.”
He blew out a frustrated gust of air, and almost without thinking, I leaned into him, letting his arms wrap around me. “I wish things had been easier for us,” he muttered.
“But it’s come out OK.” I rested my cheek against his shoulder, smiling as I realized what Martha Kent had meant. “ ‘Ad astra per aspera.’ ”
“Huh?”
I pulled away to look up at his adorably confused expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard your own state’s motto,” I said, with as much severity as I could muster. “ ‘To the stars, through hardships?’ I’m shocked, Mr. Kent.”
“Is that what it means?” he said, intrigued. “I never knew.”
Warm fingers massaged the tension out of my stiff neck muscles. With a sigh, I settled back against him.
“That’s OK,” I said lazily. “You’re a hero, I forgive you.”
“Reporters are heroes, too, Mrs. Kent.” I heard his voice rumbling contentedly against my ear as it pressed against his chest.
“Yeah,” I replied, grinning, “but you look a lot better in tights.”
I raised my head from my husband's shoulder. “Want to see the rest of the exhibits, partner?”
BTW, if anyone is wondering about that comment concerning the five freedoms of the First Amendment and why Chloe is one in a thousand, the answer is here: http://www.editorandpublisher.com/eandp/news/article_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1002113807
If you want to know how Chlois could happen after the Season 7 finale,this is my take. Also, if you've ever wondered what freedoms the First Amendment guarantees, or what the state motto of Kansas has to do with Chlark, this is the fic for you. :)
Feedback = Love. :)
Dedication
When people call me an investigative journalist, I tell them to quit repeating themselves. Everyone in a newsroom, even a gossip columnist, is in the business of uncovering and printing as much of the truth as possible. Investigating is what journalists do, plain and simple.
It only takes one word to describe us, and it’s the only title I’ve ever wanted. I put it in my very first byline, handwritten in red crayon over a story about space aliens: Chloe Sullivan, Reporter.
I smiled as I watched my taxi navigate the traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue while in the background, the brightly-lit dome of the U.S. Capitol rose like a beacon in the night sky. Little had I known, back then, that one day a space alien would change my life.
Not that I’ve ever thought of Clark Kent as an alien. Super-strong? Check. Super-fast? Definitely. Super-mopey? Well, sometimes. He did have a bad habit of blaming himself for stuff that wasn’t his fault, like my arrest by the feds, but we’re working on that, and he’s improving.
As I told him the day I was released from prison (courtesy of the best lawyers Queen Industries could buy), he’s high maintenance, but he’s worth it. In our own way, we’re both crusaders for truth and justice, although whenever I say that, he snorts and gives me this weird look, as if I’m the one from a distant planet.
But even he agrees that we make a great team, in spite of the odd complications that pop up from time to time. Like the need to attend a black-tie gala undercover.
The taxi was slowing down as it rolled past a string of stretch limos parked along the curb; quickly, I adjusted my wig in the rear-view mirror before glancing out the window at a building that seemed to be made almost entirely out of glass. It was ablaze with lights, bathing the gowns and tuxedoes of the A-list partygoers mingling at its entrance in a brilliant glow. The women were draped in enough jewelry to sink a small battleship; the overpowering glint of their diamonds, gold, pearls and platinum hit me like flashbulbs going off at a press conference.
Blinking a little to clear my vision, I looked away, tilting my head to peer up at the inscription on a marble slab that covered one entire side of the building’s imposing façade. Instantly, the crowd vanished from my mind.
The words were familiar, but they never failed to send a reverent shiver down my spine. “Congress shall make no law….”
I knew the First Amendment by heart, so I quickly skipped ahead to my favorite part. “Abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press.”
Feeling like a pilgrim, I stared up at the world’s only museum of journalism. I’d come here to pay my respects to my fellow crusading members of the Fourth Estate, who'd always been my heroes, even though the closest thing any of them had to a superpower was the ability to leap looming deadlines with a single shot of caffeine. For me and my colleagues, this was Mecca, and, for once, I was happy to be nothing more than an anonymous tourist.
Almost anonymous, that is. In the shadows, a little apart from the stream of beautiful people, a slender, auburn-haired figure stood flanked by two large, grim-looking men whose tuxedoes bulged a little, probably from the concealed weapons they carried inside. When she saw me, her face lit up and she waved, stepping forward while her bodyguards discreetly followed close behind.
A lot had happened to all of us since we’d left Smallville, and Senator Martha Kent had exchanged her denim for navy-blue evening wear, but when she smiled, I could still feel the sunshine in her kitchen, and catch the whiff of apple pie in the background. For a minute I almost expected to see Shelby trot up to us with his tail in full gear.
Waving back, I gave the top of my strapless black satin gown a final tug, paid the cabbie, and stepped onto the broad pavement. The warmth of her hug made me forget that we were sharing a street with the D.C. glitterati. I felt as if I’d come home.
“Welcome to the Newseum! I’m glad you could make it to the dedication.” She took in my wig and the corners of her mouth dimpled. “You look nice.”
I grinned back, knowing what she meant. “It makes a good disguise, doesn’t it? Besides, I miss being a blonde,” I said cheerfully, patting the fake curls.
She gave me a ladylike snort. “I don’t know why. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been having plenty of fun as a brunette.” She looked me over again, her eyes softening reminiscently. “But it does take me back.”
I nodded, remembering the last time we’d met before my change of hair color, shortly after I’d been released from jail. It had been at a Congressional inquiry here in D.C. “Thanks again for asking me to testify against the Department of Domestic Security and their creative views on Constitutional rights. I consider it poetic justice that the last official act of ‘Chloe Sullivan’ was to help you stick a pin in their balloon of bluster.”
Her head tilted inquiringly. "Have you ever considered going back to your old identity, your old look? You don't need to hide from them anymore, you know."
I shrugged. "I guess I'm too lazy to start bleaching my hair again. But it's good to know that I could if I wanted to, thanks to you."
Her lips pressed together grimly, and there was a flash of unaccustomed steel in her voice. “The D.D.S. needed to be taught a lesson. Our country can’t afford ‘protectors’ who think they’re above the law. You and Clark know that better than anyone.”
For the thousandth time, I sent up a prayer of thanks that the most powerful being on the planet had been raised by this lady. During her time in D.C., Mrs. Kent might have been forced to play hardball, but she played the game by her own rules, not Lionel Luthor’s. In the Kent universe, might would never trump right.
Her expression lightened suddenly. “Sorry for the soapbox lecture. I’ve been in D.C. too long.”
I smiled again. As far as I was concerned, Martha Kent couldn’t be in D.C. long enough.
“You know, we really ought to thank the D.D.S.,” I told her. “Without them, Clark and I wouldn’t be where we are today.”
Her reply was cut off by the sound of excited whispering nearby. Casting a sideways glance at the crowd, I noticed that more than a few of the guests filing into the building were sneaking looks at us. Discreetly, I ducked behind one of Mrs. Kent’s gargantuan guards. “So much for blending into the crowd.”
She turned a friendly grin in the crowd’s direction, sidling forward just enough to completely block me from their view. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly, still grinning, “they’re staring at me, not you.”
She gestured to the entrance, where a large placard announced proudly, in bolded capitals, “HALL OF HEROES: DEDICATION CEREMONY TONIGHT.” “Shall we?”
A green-shirted museum staffer immediately rushed forward to open the door for us, holding the other guests back while we entered. Nodding apologetically to the crowd, Mrs. Kent whisked me inside. “I hate cutting in line, but we’re running late. I didn’t want you to miss your big moment.”
I shrugged, too busy looking around to reply. The atrium soared five stories high, dwarfing the throngs of people who packed the spaces in between tables piled high with hors’ d’oeuvres and drinks. On one vast wall, a high-def screen that was almost as big as the Daily Planet newsroom showed the latest news from five continents.
Fascinated, I slowed down to watch. “Awesome. It’s like my Wall of Weird on steroids, expanded and improved.”
Martha tugged at my elbow impatiently as a voice boomed over an unseen P.A. system. “Video coverage of the dedication of the Daily Planet Hall of Heroes will begin in five minutes.”
“We’ll be late,” she said again, sounding exactly as if she were lecturing Clark about catching the school bus. At once the guards jumped into action, politely but firmly clearing a path to the elevators.
There was no arguing with Martha Kent in full Mom mode, so with one last wistful glance at the oversized window on the world’s breaking stories, I turned to follow her into the open elevator. “It’s nice of you to give me a VIP escort so I can see the dedication ceremony, but it’s just a small exhibit in the First Amendment Gallery. I really came to see the museum. And,” I added, rushing to match her pace, “to visit the top-floor terrace. I hear the view of the Capitol is spectacular.”
“The exhibit may be small, but it’s important. It wouldn’t exist without you,” she said, skewering me with a stern look as one of the guards punched the ‘Up” button next to the elevator doors. “And neither would the Daily Planet. At least, not in any meaningful form.”
The doors slid open and our little procession filed in. “Besides,” she continued, “Clark will be disappointed if you’re not there.”
“Clark won’t be there either,” I protested, frustrated that I was being dragged away from all these tantalizing attractions to listen to a few boring and predictable speeches.
She raised her eyebrows at me. “Not exactly, anyway,” I said, inwardly conceding defeat.
I don’t crumble easily, but Martha Kent was the exception to every rule.
As we arrived at the fourth floor, there was a soft chime, and the elevator door slid open to reveal a sea of fashionably-attired backs. Once again, the bodyguards did an impressive job of creating space quickly and quietly, and within minutes we were passing under an arched opening into a wider space. Judging from the foot-high chrome-plated letters on the sign hanging from the ceiling, we’d arrived in the First Amendment Gallery.
Without slowing down, Mrs. Kent scanned the displays. “Can you name the five freedoms?”
I stared at her. "The five freedoms guaranteed in the First Amendment," she explained patiently.
I rattled them off automatically. “Religion, assembly, the right to petition for redress of grievances, speech, and the press.”
Something in her look made me tilt my head curiously. “What?”
Her smile was sad. “Nothing. It’s just that you’re one in a thousand.”
There wasn’t time to ask her what she meant. We’d come to the new exhibit, where the crowd was thickest, and as we passed under a miniature spinning version of the Daily Planet’s globe, I spotted several staffers from the newsroom milling around the billboards and interactive videos, wearing bright blue-and-red VIP name tags. To my relief, most of them didn’t give me a second glance.
I’d started to check out the nearest display when a familiar voice sang out in my ear, and my heart sank. “Hey, Bright Eyes!”
I sighed inwardly. I knew my wig wouldn’t fool Jimmy Olsen, but I was hoping he’d at least be able to take the hint and leave me alone. No such luck.
Keeping my expression blank, I stared into that cheerful face. He’d looked the same way when he’d handed me that dimestore plastic ring and proposed marriage.
He hadn’t taken the hint then, either-but, to be fair, I hadn’t made it easy for him. Until that moment, I hadn’t admitted, even to myself, that I’d made up my mind about him long before.
Jimmy was a good kid. But it wasn’t my job to help him grow up. He needed to do that on his own.
“Do I know you?” I asked, and watched his face fall, just as it had when I’d refused his proposal, but this time I felt no guilt at all. A pretty girl appeared at his side, glaring at me, and she tugged him away while I hid a smile.
I turned back to Mrs. Kent, who was inspecting the display I’d noticed earlier. It was a large sign, written in old-style typeface under an antiquated, hand-drawn version of the Planet’s globe, paired with an engraving of the Great Seal of the State of Kansas:
I grinned as I read the piece, remembering Luthorcorp’s brief, and unsuccessful, attempt to roll over those values.
At the other end of the room, people were beginning to assemble on a small raised platform next to an LED screen that was bigger than my living room back in Metropolis. Images flashed across it, but we were still too far away for me to see what they were. Nearby, I recognized a few reporters from the major Metropolis TV stations setting up their newscams.
I raised my brows at Mrs. Kent, who was staring at the state seal with an odd expression. “Aren’t you the one who didn’t want to be late?” I asked, jerking my head at the platform.
There was a gleam in her eye when she turned to me. “I was just thinking about our state’s motto,” she remarked, cryptically. “Don’t you think it’s appropriate?”
I had no clue what she meant, and I didn’t see why we needed to discuss it right now, so I just shrugged.
“ ‘Ad astra per aspera,’ ”she quoted, ignoring my meaningful look at the gathering crowd around the stage. “ ‘To the stars, through hardships.’ ” Her eyes danced as she looked down at me. “It could have been written for you and Clark.”
I shot her a confused look, but there was no time to ask for an explanation. A hush had descended on the crowd as one last burly figure mounted the steps to the dais, and at a gesture from Mrs. Kent, the guards fast-forwarded us straight to the edge of the stage, past a gallery of tributes to former Planet editors and Pulitzer winners like Pauline Kahn and Max Taylor. The name of Grant Gabriel, I noticed, was nowhere to be seen.
We settled into a discreet position near a corner of the stage, out of the range of the spotlights and the camera flashes, as the latest arrival on the platform moved toward the lectern, scowling and yanking at the satin-faced lapels of his rumpled formal jacket as if they chafed unbearably. But he took in his audience with the same keen look he leveled on city beat reporters in the Planet newsroom.
Our eyes met, and his slid past mine with only a hint of a twinkle. I watched him respectfully, and looked forward to the ribbing I’d be giving him later for wearing a tux that was two sizes too big.
I’d known that Perry would understand. This night was about the Planet, not me. The fact that my picture, sans wig, was splashed all over the big screen next to him was beside the point.
He hesitated, peering around the room again as if he were looking for someone. After a minute of dead silence, he shrugged and leaned over the mike.
No sooner had his mouth opened than a sudden burst of wind whipped across the room, shaking the TV newscams and blowing blonde hair all over my face. I moved fast to push my wig back into place as a by-now-familiar blaze of red and blue popped into view on the platform next to Perry.
Everyone except Perry gave a collective gasp. “Glad you could make it, Superman,” he said matter-of-factly, blinking up at the towering figure in the skintight outfit.
Anxiously I looked the new arrival over, picking out the stains on his boots and cape and reminding myself that it was silly to worry about someone who was practically indestructible. As I did, I noticed plenty of other women in the crowd checking Superman out for other reasons, and pressed my lips together to keep from laughing out loud. None of them, in their wildest dreams, would ever connect the musclebound hero striding across the stage with the most mild-mannered reporter in Metropolis.
Mrs. Kent had been right: The best place for Clark to hide-from the D.D.S., from Lex Luthor, and from any other random alien-hunting fanatics-was in plain sight. Between the two of us, we’d managed to turn the Kryptonian equivalent of long johns and red Underroos into, not only the most effective disguise on the planet, but also a worldwide symbol of hope.
We had a right to be proud, no matter how much Clark grumbled about chafing.
Big baby.
“Sorry I’m late,” he was apologizing to Perry in a voice pitched at least half an octave lower than Clark’s normal speaking voice. He took a seat close to the speakers’ podium. “There’s a flood in Indiana.”
“No problem,” Perry rumbled, shuffling a few pieces of paper that, I knew, were covered with squiggles decipherable only by him. “I was just getting started.”
Like a bull getting ready to charge, he jutted his head over the mike and raised his voice so that it carried to every corner of the room. “The sign outside says this is a dedication ceremony. To most people, that’s just fancy talk for ‘Welcome to the party.’ And I’m all for that,” he grinned, lifting a glass filled with a suspiciously amber-colored liquid that bore no resemblance whatsoever to water. “Here’s to the new hall, folks, let’s all have a good time!”
There was a smattering of applause as he put the glass down slowly without taking a sip from it. His grin faded, and he leaned forward, gripping both sides of the podium. “But that’s not what dedication means to me.”
The applause died down, and his voice rang out in the sudden silence. “Dedication is commitment. You can be dedicated to world peace. You can be dedicated to your family, to your career, or to your favorite baseball team. But if you’re a reporter like me, there’s only one thing worth dedicating your life to, and that’s the truth.”
His arm shot out, taking in all the exhibits with a single sweeping gesture. “The people you see here, in this hall, were and are all dedicated to that one thing. They didn’t get into journalism for fame or big bucks. They did it because they believed that a free country has to have a free press, and a free press has a responsibility to keep the public informed.”
He was glaring at the audience, as if he thought the quiet faces were somehow challenging him. “If you want to know what kind of dedication I’m talking about,” he said, jerking his head toward the larger-than-life, warts-and-all picture of me on the screen next to him, “Here it is.”
I’ve never been accused of being modest, but I felt a blush begin to crawl up my cheeks. Even though he’d given me a head’s-up about the tribute, if I’d known I’d feel this uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have come at all.
The fact that Clark had caught my eye and was twinkling at me didn’t help matters. Up to now he hadn’t seemed to notice me at all, but of course he’d probably keyed onto my heartbeat as soon as he’d entered the room. He looked like he was enjoying the speech, which only flustered me even more.
“You all know the name ‘Lois Lane,’” Perry intoned. “But what you probably don’t know is that she got her first Pulitzer-winning expose by risking her life in jail.”
I wasn’t surprised to see puzzled expressions on the faces around me. Of course they didn’t know that, I thought, because it’d been Chloe Sullivan who’d been in jail, not Lois Lane. Lois had been at the Planet, desperately searching for ammunition to bring down Lex.
I was the one who'd found it, in the shape of two lovely, and vengeful, former Luthorcorp employees who’d been sent up the river for the crime of knowing too much. After seeing Lex squirrel away so many victims in places like Level 33.1 and Belle Reve, I’d had a hunch that he might use the Kansas federal pen the same way, and I’d been right.
“She made contacts who could’ve gotten her killed,” Perry went on.
But it wasn’t me who was killed, I thought, looking away from the stage and blinking to clear the sudden moisture in my eyes. My cousin, who’d been too eager to trap Lex in her crosshairs, had wound up squarely in the middle of his--and this time, I hadn't been around to save her. Even if I had, I doubted that I would have been able to; my meteor-induced powers seemed to have deserted me after my run-in with Brainiac.
I felt Mrs. Kent’s hand on my shoulder, and I managed a smile. “She always wanted a big byline,” I murmured quietly. “At least I could give her that.”
She gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “She’d be so proud of you.”
Perry continued. “It was those contacts who gave her the story that she later broke in her blog, the Daily Star, and you all know the rest.” Newsreel clips of demonstrations outside Luthorcorp, interviews with federal prosecutors, and Lex’s arrest raced by on the big screen. “The story triggered a massive federal investigation into Luthorcorp’s illegal experiments, and the Planet got a new lease on life, thanks to the Queen Foundation.” He turned to give a little salute to someone on the platform, and for the first time I noticed Ollie, grinning back at him from the rear of the platform where he’d been sitting half-hidden, obviously unwilling to steal Perry’s spotlight.
“Lois Lane saved our paper because she went after the truth with everything she had, just as she still does today.”
I hoped Perry was winding things up, but I couldn’t help wishing that recorders were permitted in the museum. I could’ve used a tape of this speech to play back the next time he tore apart one of my story ideas.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I mean by dedication.” Relaxing, he gave the crowd a wink. “Now enjoy the show, folks.”
I relaxed, too. “Well, that wasn’t too bad,” I said to Mrs. Kent, shouting to be heard over the thunderous cheering of the guests. “I guess he didn’t think he needed to mention that Lex bought his way back to power.”
When she didn’t reply, I looked in her direction, and caught her sharing what she obviously thought was a private smile with Perry, who’d paused in his trip off the stage just long enough to glance at her. Quickly opening my clutch, I pretended to check my cell phone for messages, while I hid a grin and wondered how long it would take for the two of them to figure out for themselves what Clark and I had seen coming for years.
Meanwhile, Superman was joining the others on stage in a long, enthusiastic standing ovation. I saw a museum official get up and head to the podium to put in his own two cents, and decided I'd heard enough speeches for the evening. It was time for me to get a breath of fresh air.
I peered up at Superman. “Meet me on the top-floor terrace?” I muttered under my breath, saw one corner of his mouth crinkle slightly, and nodded in satisfaction.
********
The view of Pennsylvania Avenue from the museum’s terrace was just as spectacular as I’d heard. To one side, the Capitol dome gleamed under the rising moon, and on the other the Washington Monument soared skyward from behind the darkened office buildings lining the bustling street.
By now, the speeches were winding to a close, and the party would be in full swing downstairs. Once the guests had finished schmoozing and exchanging business cards, they’d head up here to exchange phone numbers, but for now, I had the place to myself.
The soft sound of leather soles scraping against the marble tiles made me turn around.
Clark had exchanged his eye-searing outfit for a nondescript, baggy gray suit and dark-rimmed glasses, but when he looked at me through the thick lenses, it was with the same steady green glow I’d seen in Superman’s eyes. I wondered, again, how it was possible that no one but me could see the connection between the two.
He came up to me and shook my shoulders gently. “Lois,” he sighed, using his own voice this time, “are you insane?”
Patting my blonde wig, I eyed him just as steadily. “Don’t you like it?”
His expression darkened. “I thought we’d agreed. We both need to hide in plain sight. The last thing either one of us needs is to be anonymous.” He cupped my cheek with his big palm. “That’s all the opening Lex needs to grab you. You know he’s starting up Level 33.1 again.”
I knew. But Clark was worrying for nothing. “If Lex wants to add me to his meteor collection, he’ll be disappointed,” I told him. “Whatever powers I had, they fizzled years ago. I haven’t healed so much as a hangnail since before you joined the Planet.”
He blew out a frustrated gust of air, and almost without thinking, I leaned into him, letting his arms wrap around me. “I wish things had been easier for us,” he muttered.
“But it’s come out OK.” I rested my cheek against his shoulder, smiling as I realized what Martha Kent had meant. “ ‘Ad astra per aspera.’ ”
“Huh?”
I pulled away to look up at his adorably confused expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard your own state’s motto,” I said, with as much severity as I could muster. “ ‘To the stars, through hardships?’ I’m shocked, Mr. Kent.”
“Is that what it means?” he said, intrigued. “I never knew.”
Warm fingers massaged the tension out of my stiff neck muscles. With a sigh, I settled back against him.
“That’s OK,” I said lazily. “You’re a hero, I forgive you.”
“Reporters are heroes, too, Mrs. Kent.” I heard his voice rumbling contentedly against my ear as it pressed against his chest.
“Yeah,” I replied, grinning, “but you look a lot better in tights.”
I raised my head from my husband's shoulder. “Want to see the rest of the exhibits, partner?”
BTW, if anyone is wondering about that comment concerning the five freedoms of the First Amendment and why Chloe is one in a thousand, the answer is here: http://www.editorandpublisher.com/eandp/news/article_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1002113807