FIC: HOVERING ON THE BRINK -- Ch. 2 -- A VOICE IN SPACE
Disclaimer: Superman and his fellow characters are the property of Warner Bros. Studios and DC Comics, and created by Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel.
The fact that Clark eats a lot -- and drives up my grocery bill -- is beside the point.
FIC: Hovering on the Brink
2. A Voice in Space
Superman hovers above the penthouse, and watches Lois's son -- my son -- rush into her arms.
“Can I call daddy after supper, mom?”
A pang of wistful want settles in Kal-El’s gut as he hangs, motionless, above the apartment building.
Richard. I thought he would be a real father for Jason, like my dad was for me.
Rising up through the haze, arms free and stretched out to the sides, his face to the heavens, Kal-El ascends. As he cleaves the clouds, the water droplets coalesce on his body like a jewelled cloak.
I was so wrong about him - he hurt Lois, and she’s so… vulnerable right now.
Turning in a slow spiral in the stratosphere, Superman is in his element -- like a sea creature savouring the salt-water ocean.
His mind floats back to that moment when it all fell apart.
-- or came together… if I can allow myself to be selfish, for once. Fat chance, Kal. This can’t be about me - no matter how much I want it… her.
Lois.
Richard, you had no idea. It was all about you.
“He’s not my son, Superman. He’s not even human… how am I supposed to relate to him? …And Lois - to her I’m a placeholder… for you. I’m… convenient. She doesn’t love me.”
The slam of the door signalled Lois’s return from the grocery store, and the produce on the floor, mingled with spattered eggs and apple juice, signalled just how much she’d overheard.
“Richard - he was your son for five years - how can you…” and Lois promptly fainted, in a heap, amidst the groceries.
She did love you Richard. She loved you, before she couldn’t forgive you for not accepting Jason. She loved you, before you couldn’t forgive her for having him -- my alien son. She did love you, so where does this leave me?
Flying… defying gravity, is natural - as innate as breathing -- yet Superman reaches 110 kilometres -- beyond the Karman line -- before he realizes he has been holding his breath. He exhales, and some of the tension built up in Lois’s apartment leaves him, but her heartbeat resounds in his ears, and her image glows behind his closed eyelids. He can escape from earth’s gravity, but cannot release himself from the hold of one tiny human being, named Lois.
His unhappy reverie over -- eyes sleepy and half-closed -- Kal-El dreams of sunlight -- only instinct driving and guiding his upward motion; completely unaware how much this respite is a relief to his system -- near as good as the two hours sleep per night he should get, but usually doesn’t because of his self-induced schedule of service to the human race.
Stretching his arms up and arching his back, he yawns, rubs his tearing eyes to clear them, and notices a piece of space junk that floats past. He squints and focuses a narrow beam of heat vision at its centre, and the 6-metre plate, that was once a portion of the hull of a soviet satellite, disintegrates in a soundless puff of molecules.
As he passes through the thermosphere, his impulse to take a deep breath is thwarted by the vacuum of space and he laughs, a breathless cry; what would have been a deep, self-deprecating rumble, if there were any air to carry vibration to produce sound.
That was embarrassing.
Floating on his back, the last son of Krypton spends a distracted few minutes zapping spacesuit gloves, flakes of paint, shuttle tiles and bolts. At one point, he absently pushes up his non-existent glasses, and realizes he’s hypnotized, like Jimmy Olsen playing spider solitaire on his computer in the middle of a slow news day.
Enough. Humans screw up their environment to the point of dumping millions of pounds of bits of space garbage, that orbit the planet at speeds of up to 17,000 miles per hour. I’m not going to spend my whole evening playing space-junk invaders. I have things more important to attend to…
Lying back, Kal-El closes his eyes, and listens.
-- Heartbeats…10 metre square segments… triangulate… rate… number… “rampart… 1017 at 4th and Reeve -- all units respond” …that’s a four-alarm -
VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE
-- O…kay… wait, that sound wasn’t… from Earth.
Superman opens his eyes, turns toward the noise, and, with dawning dread, realizes the source -- the abomination that Lois -- his Lois - has named ‘New Krypton.’
He rotates to face it, automatically steeling himself for an attack. The effects from the kryptonite radiation are weak, owing to the great distance, but nagging -- like a toothache. He frowns. Why didn’t I notice that till now?
Superman strains his vision through, and beyond, the deadly meteor rock - to see if he can ascertain anything. the images are distorted and blurry; all he can make out are twisted crystal formations and green shards, fused in a perverted and deadly union.
Not Krypton - new or old - more like… Hell.
The unyielding sound, steady and repetitive like a shrill Morse code, intensifies to a level where Superman grimaces with discomfort, and tries to filter the cacophony by concentrating.
It must be the crystals, calling to me - or, worse, deteriorating. But why now? Was I too far away to sense it before - or too incapacitated ?
Dear God… it’s closer.
Superman remembers the crater in the park, a result of his plummeting to earth, and his eyes widen in horror.
I’d hoped - but… of course, all orbits decay, and most small objects burn up on re-entry, but this… atrocity… is massive…
...and it’s falling.
TBC