Cross Fire Page 5

  On the surface, what Aesop proposed seemed like a brilliant idea. No one would ever argue against making life more efficient and communities safer. Even Superman was looking for help in that area. But there were clear dangers in implementing technology on such a grand scale. Moreover, good reporters always followed up with tough questions.

  “What would happen if a drone’s circuits crossed? Or if one went rogue?” countered Clark. “What if someone in power misused these drones for their own ends?”

  His interview subject frowned. “You sound like my sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “She’s the one who ratted me out. She’s the one who had me committed to Arkham Asylum. Even after the alien attack, she still told me that my drones were dangerous. As if they couldn’t have saved countless lives! She’s why I was never able to implement my plan before now.”

  “Why?”

  A sickle of a smile crept over Aesop’s face. “Have you ever heard the story about the bat and the weasel?”

  “Have you ever heard the story about the bat and the weasel?”

  In all his years, Batman had seen few beings as pathetic as the inmate who posed that question. He paced from one wall to the other in his padded call, fluctuating between sniffing and snickering. His nose constantly twitched. His front teeth bucked out like a jackrabbit. He tilted his head side to side, swaying the two antelope antlers he wore on a band. If there was a poster child for Arkham Asylum, Jackalope was it.

  “Have you heard it?” Jackalope asked again.

  “You’re not answering my question,” Batman growled. “Where did Doctor Aesop go?”

  Aesop was supposed to be here. Alfred had hacked into the inmate database, which confirmed Doctor Aesop’s residency. Yet when Batman visited the cell, he found it empty. So either Aesop was housed in another cell—a near impossibility because Arkham was already past maximum occupancy—or he had escaped, and the staff was covering it up.

  Batman assumed the latter. That assumption brought him into the cell of Aesop’s most frequent acquaintance during recreation time, at least according to the database records.

  Jackalope snarled. “Doctor Aesop … he tricked his friend! He betrayed Jack! He told Jack the story of the bat and the weasel, then left and didn’t take Jack with him!” In a bout of anger, Jackalope banged his antlers into the padded wall. The vinyl punctured. Bits of foam stuck to the tips of his antlers.

  Batman could only imagine the teasing this creature must have endured throughout his life about his size, nose, ears, and buck teeth. He wore antlers to be something greater than the jackrabbit he resembled, something more powerful—the mythical jackalope.

  Was Batman any different by wearing his cape and cowl?

  Feeling a sympathetic kinship with the inmate, Batman made his voice as calm as he could. “Yes, tell me about the bat and the weasel. I’ve never heard the story.”

  Jackalope lifted his antlers from the wall. His nose slowed its twitch. He stopped laughing and chortling. When he smiled, his buck teeth didn’t look so big.

  “There once was a bat who was snatched by a weasel …”

  There once was a bat who was snatched by a weasel,” began Uncle Aesop.

  Ditching his dirt bike outside, Rory tiptoed into the abandoned shoe factory. He spotted Uncle Aesop in an adjoining room telling his fable to a younger, dark-haired man who wrote down everything he said. A badge hung from the younger man’s neck with the symbol of the Daily Planet.

  What was a reporter doing here? Rory’s uncle had told him the sole purpose of them setting up their base in the factory rather than Rory’s house was that it would be “off the grid.” They could mount a rescue operation to save Rory’s mother without running afoul of city regulations. They would be able to upgrade RE-1 with the artificial intelligence processor in the utmost secrecy.

  That explanation didn’t make much sense to Rory, though he didn’t question it. Uncle Aesop had been right in ordering Rory to search his clothes for any tracer bugs. He had found one tiny electronic beacon stuck to his T-shirt and promptly discarded it into the bay. But if his uncle truly wanted to keep this place a secret, why was he talking to someone from the Daily Planet?

  Rory slipped his arms out of the straps and gently put RE-1 down onto a workbench. Batman’s Batarang lay caught in the tangle of spinner blade poles it had crumpled. With some forceful yanks, Rory pulled it out, careful of its edges. He straightened the poles the best he could. The blades themselves seemed undamaged. RE-1 should be able to fly again.

  The object Rory had extracted was quite a souvenir. It was made of a lightweight metal and cut in the shape of a bat. Rory gripped one wing and flicked his wrist. He hadn’t intended to release it, but it flew out of his hand naturally and wedged itself in a pyramid of metal cases nearby.

  Rory glanced over to the men in the room. His uncle was still telling the story of the bat and the weasel to the reporter. They hadn’t noticed his accidental target practice.

  He walked past the workbenches to the pyramid. The thirty metal cases in its stack seemed to be nothing more than lockboxes just like the one his mom used to keep cash in at their annual garage sale. A closer look, however, revealed that every lockbox possessed a camera lens, two lights, and a speaker-microphone unit like RE-1. Similarly, four poles with spinner blades were folded down on the tops of each box. In place of the LEDs Rory had used for Morse code, a tube protruded with a small lens. It looked like a thicker version of Miss Paiva’s laser pointer.

  Was his uncle making copies of RE-1? Why hadn’t he said anything? Rory could’ve offered some improvements to help speed up the search for his mother.

  “Do you know the moral to the fable?” he heard his uncle ask the reporter. Their voices were getting louder. Rory wrested the Batarang free from between the cases, slipped it into his back pocket, and moved away from the pyramid. The men came into the center of the factory.

  “Let me guess,” the reporter said. “Don’t judge a bat by its wings.”

  “Close,” Uncle Aesop said. “More like turn every bad situation into a good one.”

  “And your bad situation was being committed to Arkham?”

  Uncle Aesop grinned. “During which I spent every waking hour thinking about how I would punish Bruce Wayne and my rat of a sister—” Uncle Aesop paused, seeing Rory. “You’re back.”

  Rory stepped toward them. “I didn’t want to disturb you two.”

  The reporter held out a hand to Rory. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”

  “Rory Greeley, Lewis Wilson Middle School.” Rory shook Clark Kent’s hand. The man had an iron grip.

  “This is your … nephew?” Clark asked Aesop.

  He grunted. “Indeed it is.”

  Clark Kent looked honest and trustworthy to Rory, and might be someone who could help their search. “If you’re at the Daily Planet, do you know Lois Lane?”

  Clark laughed. “I do.”

  “Can you tell her to do a report on my mother, Amelia Greeley? She was downtown during the attack—”

  “That’s quite enough,” interrupted Uncle Aesop, shooting a glare at Rory. “Mister Kent doesn’t have time to chase trivialities.”

  “It’s no biggie. I can ask Lois. We both got into the newspaper business to help people.” Clark looked at Rory. “Is Amelia Greeley your mother?”

  Rory nodded. Clark flipped pages in his notepad. “I must have gotten this wrong, Doctor Aesop. You said you had spoken with Amelia after the attack.”

  Clark’s statement cut through Rory like a Batarang to his soul. Did he hear that right? Uncle Aesop has seen his mother?

  “You must have misheard me,” his uncle corrected. “We’re still looking for her. Every day we pray for her safe return.” He smiled at Rory. “Isn’t that right?”

  Rory had nothing to say. He was stunned. Confused. He took a few steps away from his uncle.

  Uncle Aesop grabbed Clark’s arm. “The boy’s been through a lot recently and
I think it’s best we don’t stir up a hornet’s nest, if you know what I mean. Let me escort you out.”

  Clark Kent glanced back at Rory as he was led through the squeaky door. Rory stood there, his heart hammering in his chest. Had his uncle really spoken with his mother? Could he not be telling Rory the whole truth? Why?

  Was he hiding something?

  When Uncle Aesop returned, alone, his friendly smile had vanished. “You have the chip? Hand it to me.”

  “N-n-not …” Rory stammered, looking his uncle right in the eye. The man was twice the size of Haus, and probably ten times the bully. But Rory couldn’t wimp out again, not like he always did at school. He had to stand up for his mom. He had to discover what his uncle was hiding.

  He summoned all his courage and steeled his voice. “Not until you tell me everything you know about my mother. And why did you call her a rat?”

  “This is not a negotiation,” his uncle snarled.

  “You called her a rat. Why?”

  “She’s a rat because she told her bosses what I was planning to do.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Give me the chip or I promise you will never see her again.” He loomed over Rory, his hands balled into fists.

  Rory held out an arm. “Fine. Take it. Just tell me the truth.” He took the processor out of his pocket and gave it to his uncle.

  Uncle Aesop’s eyes widened like someone who had found pure gold. “Finally! My work is mine again. Soon the whole world will know my name—and I will have my revenge!” He held the chip under a shaft of moonlight and kissed it.

  “Revenge? For what?” Rory dared.

  His uncle chuckled. “Come. Let me show you something, nephew.”

  Rory followed Uncle Aesop over to the pyramid, where his uncle retrieved the top case. “You’ve proved a great inspiration, young man.” His uncle set the case on a workbench and unlocked it with a key. Rory stood on his toes to see inside. The inner circuitry resembled that of RE-1, produced from cheap aftermarket parts.

  “You used my design,” Rory said.

  “With a few improvements.” His uncle rotated the chip so the bottom pins were at the proper angle, then fit the chip into the motherboard socket.

  Red lights above the camera lenses illuminated. The poles atop the case unfolded and the blades revved up to spin. Soon the robot drone hovered in the air before Rory and his uncle.

  “Test unit nineteen-thirty-three at your service,” a voice said that sounded just like the robot from WayneTech lab.

  His uncle spoke in a clear, commanding voice. “I am Doctor Babrius Aesop, your designer. You will be now known as Elite Drone One. You will obey only my orders, as encoded in your programming.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “As the first test of your abilities, I want you to fire your laser.”

  Rory scooted away from the drone. “Lasers? That wasn’t part of my design.”

  “Like I said, I made some improvements.” Uncle Aesop pointed across the factory floor. “Target that workbench,” he instructed the drone.

  A light began to build in intensity and sharpness in the lens of what looked like Miss Paiva’s laser pointer. Rory knew not to stare at it because it could damage his eyes. After about ten seconds of warming up, a tightly focused beam of energy shot out from the drone’s tube and drilled a hole into the workbench’s legs. The bench collapsed.

  Uncle Aesop clapped. “Your aim is impeccable, Elite Drone One.”

  “Affirmative,” replied the drone.

  Rory watched coils of smoke rise from the charred wood. “You’re going to use that to blast the rocks that could be around my mother … right?”

  “I’m going to use it to blast whatever stands in its path,” Uncle Aesop said. “Elite Drone One, transmit the signal to activate your brothers and sisters. You will be their brain.”

  “Affirmative.”

  The drone emitted a squelch of electronic noise. Twin orange lights lit up on every case in the pyramid. On the top two cases, the poles unfolded and the spinner blades rotated. When those units flew over to the Elite Drone, the same happened for the cases stacked below. Within a minute, nine drones with orange lights hovered behind their leader.

  “Behold my Drone Strike Team,” Uncle Aesop said, “which is but the initial force of my drone army. With them I will conquer both Metropolis and Gotham City.”

  Rory stood his ground. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’m not going to be a part of it. I stole that chip so we could search for my mom. That’s what we agreed to. Now tell me: Where is my mother?”

  Uncle Aesop turned to his strike team. “Drone Two-Three-Eight, escort this little brat into the storage room. There he can start—and end—his search for his mommy.”

  “Affirmative.” A drone came out of the pack and whisked toward Rory.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” his uncle added. “If he tries to run, blast him.”

  Batman gripped the torn vinyl of the padded cell. He felt like he was going crazy himself after listening to Jackalope’s rambling tale. What had started out as a simple story about a bat and a weasel had turned into a sprawling, confusing epic about birds and mice, tortoises and hares, and even ants and grasshoppers.

  “Is there an end to this?” Batman interjected.

  Jackalope snorted. “An end? No end. Only a moral.”

  “So what’s the moral?” Batman asked, trying to cut to the chase.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Always turn a good situation into a bad one,” Jackalope said, bursting into laughter.

  Batman knew the poor fool had reversed good and bad in the moral. But he didn’t correct him. “You said Doctor Aesop told you that story?”

  Jackalope stopped laughing. “Doctor Aesop,” he hissed, “he is a liar, he is a cheat, he is a traitor!”

  “I’m in full agreement,” Batman said, “which is why I’d like to know what else he lied about.”

  Jackalope scuffed his feet on the floor. “He lied about Jack working for him. He lied about his plans.”

  “Plans for what?”

  Jackalope squinted one eye at Batman. “To rule over Metropolis and Gotham City. To hurt Bruce Wayne for what he did to Jack.”

  “Bruce Wayne?” Ever so controlled, Batman couldn’t contain his shock. “What did Bruce Wayne do to you?”

  “Bruce Wayne is a liar, he is a cheat, he is a traitor!” Jackalope screamed, stomping the floor. “Just like Bruce Wayne got rid of Doctor Aesop, Bruce Wayne got rid of Jack.”

  Batman looked at the short man. He didn’t remember Jackalope ever being on the payroll, but he had thousands of employees. “You worked for Bruce Wayne?”

  Jackalope began to pace again. “Jack worked for Bruce Wayne like Jack was going to work for Doctor Aesop. Jack is the best at cleaning and sweeping and scrubbing and wiping. Jack can mop floors and Jack can polish windows. Jack can change lightbulbs. But all these good things Jack does make no difference, because Jack wears these.” He grabbed his antlers. “These cause Jack to be fired. These cause Jack to be forgotten. So no more WayneTech. No more Gotham Gimbals. No more!”

  He banged his antlers into the wall and didn’t stop. Batman withdrew to the door. He doubted he’d learn anything more from Jackalope, but perhaps he didn’t need to. In his ravings, Jack had divulged a location that would be a perfect hiding spot for a criminal like Aesop.

  Batman waved a keybreaker card over the lock and slipped out of the cell. After checking that the door was locked behind him, Batman hustled down the corridors and out of the asylum. The Batmobile waited for him in the shadows.

  The orange glow of the drone’s lights enabled Rory to survey his surroundings. Rory had been brought into a storage room of sorts. Drips through the cracked ceiling fed puddles on the cracked floor. Stacks of soggy crates teetered on the verge of collapse. Gimbals of every shape and size—all rusted and unusable, of course—lay in sad piles like an unloved treasure hoard.

  As for hi
s floating guardian, its only weaponry seemed to be its laser. Rory knew that laser was far faster than any of his reflexes, yet if he could somehow distract the drone, he might have a chance at disarming it.

  “So you’re Two-Three-Eight?”

  The drone’s lights flickered. “Affirmative.”

  That flickering had lasted for less than a second, but Rory noticed. Since it didn’t have the faster AI processor the Elite Drone possessed, it had taken time to process Rory’s voice and question.

  Perhaps that was the key. If he could get the drone to make computations about its own processor, he would essentially be sending its programming into a loop.

  “You do realize you’re just a hunk of junk for my uncle to command. He didn’t even give you an AI unit for independent thought.”

  There was another flicker of the drone’s lights, a little longer this time. “Independent thought is not necessary. Silence your voice.” It waved its laser menacingly.

  Rory waited a moment before he spoke again. “What if I said I could replace your processor with a more advanced, artificial intelligence prototype? Would you still want me silenced?”

  The twin orange lights flickered—and kept flickering. Its laser tip smoldered red. “Only Elite Drone One has an AI processor. Other central processors are … unavailable. Silence …”

  “How can I be silent when your computations are wrong?” Rory reached behind him and gripped the Batarang. “See, unknown to your master programmer, when I broke into the lab, I grabbed two processors, not one. I kept the extra in my back pocket.”

  “Extra processor … not used … inefficient management of resources …”

  Rory smiled. “Very inefficient. But if you shut off your laser, I can open up your case and swap your processor. Just calculate how much faster and quicker you’ll be to do your job, like guarding me.”

  The drone’s lights started to flash many times a second. “Processing speed would increase by incalculable factors … upgrade immediately … upgrade immediately … defense mechanism shutting off …”