Meanwhile, far from Gotham… Ra’s al Ghul regarded the form in the mirror with satisfaction.
He made a barely visible movement of his index finger and Ne’roal, the
individual to his right, held up a black suit jacket.
Ingar, the servant on his left, adjusted his tie.
And Ko’rath stood behind waiting with a jewel-encrusted cloak. By tomorrow, he would again have an Ubu standing by to fulfill Ko’rath’s
role as his bodyguard and personal attendant.
This would please Ko’rath no less than it would please Ra’s Al Ghul himself. For Ko’rath, while an admirable soldier and an adequate valet, had
one personal habit Ra’s could not abide: he played the flute.
It was galling to sense that his first attendant, the minion singled out
above all others to serve his personal needs until the next Ubu was called,
actually wanted to be finished with the day’s work and return
to his own room. Ubu always stood by to listen respectfully to his master’s
musings on the day’s events. Ko’rath
positively rushed the evening toilet in his haste to be on his own personal time,
and then, mere minutes after he retired to his room, the quaintly doleful music of
the hill people would begin to seep through the wall separating the valet’s
quarters from Ra’s bedroom. Ra’s
considered moving Ko’rath down the hall, but that rather defeated the purpose
of having his attendant’s room adjacent to his own. Satisfied with the adjustments to his tie, Ra’s dismissed Ne’roal and
Ingar and nodded to Ko’rath to step forward with the cloak and wrap it around
his shoulders. “No,” he declared as Ko’rath brought forth a golden clasp to fasten it,
“the crimson diamonds today.” The red diamonds he desired to fasten his cloak at the throat were the same
scarlet as his tie. It was well to
consider such things when he was leaving the compound to be seen by the people,
for the peasantry would speak of this day and how he appeared for generations to
come. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” he said absently, “Crimson diamonds. I came
upon them over a century ago visiting a tribe in Zaire. A fascinating
representation of the classic ‘diamond in the rough’ adage, as I could
hardly believe that that particular tribe, extremely poor and savage, could
possess a stone of such beauty. When they found it missing, they
slaughtered all of the neighboring tribes in retribution. I had these two
fashioned out of the original as a reminder of the brutality inherent in human
nature. Appropriate, I think, that they are the color of blood.” Ko’rath made the quiet grunt Ra’s had come to recognize as respectful
acknowledgement, although its similarity to the Detective’s grunt nearly
caused Ra’s to have Ko’rath killed the first time he heard it.
The Detective. That the opposition of that one man could slow his march to world domination,
it was intolerable. Every year
wasted made it more intolerable. Perhaps
the time had come to reassess the situation.
He would have plenty of time to consider the question in the course of
the day’s journey. Ra’s had castles, compounds, and installations all over the world, but his
principle base for acquiring and training personnel remained in the wild Fagaras
Mountains of Transylvania. The
wandering gypsies that came each year to nearby Bistrita brought a regular
influx of recruits. The gypsies
were outsiders in Romania; despised as thieves and vagabonds, they kept to
themselves. If a few young men
disappeared from their midst as they made their pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Gregory, what could they do? Of
course, the snatching of gypsies for the lower tiers of soldiers was beneath his
notice. But today’s
business did require his Imperial attention.
Today he traveled to Sighisoara, a town almost perfectly preserved in its
medieval heritage, to call forth the next Ubu.
If Sighisoara was known to the West, it would be as the birthplace of Vlad
Tepes, commonly called Dracula. But
Ra’s al Ghul had seen that the town never received that kind of notice, for
that would bring tourists and change. And
he wanted Sighisoara kept unspoiled. For
that reason, he had kept them sheltered from the Communists, and the villagers
were appropriately grateful. They
showed their gratitude by sending every healthy born male who met the proper
physical requirements to the special training compound outside Eger in Hungary.
The fierce warriors of Eger were legendary in this part of the world.
It was said 2,000 Hungarians of Eger once drove off 100,000 enemy Turks.
The defeated Turks themselves spread the story of how the Egerians’
mouths were red; it was whispered they drank bull’s blood to gain superhuman
strength. This was the grand tradition in which his elite troops were cultivated… And
still the damnable Detective thwarted his men at every turn!
Since the spy Nethal was sent back to him in disgrace, no fewer than
nineteen agents had been expelled from Gotham City.
All had been bested, physically as well as mentally, and not all by the
Detective’s own hand, but his followers:
the upstart boys, that girl assassin, the Canary, and even the feline.
The Demon’s Head was still determined to have Batman for his heir. But in
the privacy of his own mind, on this bumpy road to Sighisoara, he did begin to
consider: perhaps, just perhaps,
there was more to it than the blanket admiration he granted a worthy foe. There was something about that place that produced
these people: not the Detective
alone, but those others he gathered around him, that kept getting the better of
all his minions. It warranted
investigation. When the time had come to depart the comforts of the transport for the stink of the village streets, Ra’s Al Ghul deigned to speak to his driver:
“Driver, send word to Ulstarn that I wish a teleconference as soon as I return
to the compound. That will be after
two o’clock Gotham time, but see to it that he is there well before three.” Ra’s saw no need to explain to a subordinate that the timing was to insure
the call would be done with well before dinner.
Speaking to Ulstarn, his lieutenant governing the Gotham City operation,
always put Ra’s off his food. The Demon’s Head proceeded to the Goldsmith’s Tower, highest point in the
Citadel, for the ceremony. The
three young men deemed worthy presented themselves for consideration as Ubu.
They prostrated themselves and gave the oath of loyalty—in the long
form. This was appropriate to the
solemnity of the ceremony, but Ra’s couldn’t help but wince, knowing Ulstarn
would insist on reciting the long form once, if not twice, in the course of
their upcoming phonecall. As the three Ubu candidates performed the ritual trials of strength and
bravery, Ra’s started to reconsider: Simply
talking to Ulstarn was an annoyance. Did he actually want to travel to Gotham
City and have to deal with his psychotically paranoid lieutenant in person?
He did not. Nevertheless, it
was necessary. If he was to solve this mysterious advantage the Detective seemed
to draw from his city, it was necessary. The trials concluded, and Ra’s had each Ubu-candidate step forward in turn. During this phase of the ceremony, he could question each man at length. But the details of their genealogy and training were already known to him, and there was nothing else to ask about. They had no lives or interests beyond the indoctrination to the DEMON Cult. He therefore asked each man how he felt during the previous trials and didn’t bother listening to their answers. Instead, he thought ahead to the difficulties of infiltrating the Detective’s city with his Imperial presence while delaying the Detective’s knowledge of said presence for as long as possible. Eventually, the room went still. The last candidate had answered the last question, and all waited for The Demon’s Head to speak. “Number three,” Ra’s al Ghul pronounced finally, “Number three that was
born Corcea Porumbescu, son of Joseph Porumbescu of Sighisoara, I call you forth
to serve me as Ubu.” The first two candidates were immediately escorted from the ring and offered
a variety of knives, swords, maces and chains.
Each chose a weapon and then returned to the ring to attack.
When the unarmed Ubu successfully fought his armed opponents to the
death, the ceremony would be concluded.
Meanwhile, even farther
from Gotham… Batman hit the side of the
Watchtower transporter tube with the full force of his fist.
His costume was visibly ripped and torn, but that was nothing compared to
the body underneath. The headstrong fools, they couldn’t do it his way, and this
was the result. They had to make up
their own plan—to use the word loosely—as they went along.
What the hell was Superman trying to accomplish anyway?
And Diana was worse. Everything he tried, they undermined.
Everything! Whatever he did
reverted back to…
to whatever it was they was going for, and even
now he couldn’t say what that was—nor, he guessed, could they.
And this was the result. He
was battered. His entire body was utterly, brutally battered!
It was the most humiliating physical beating he’d suffered since
Prometheus, and it was all because the queen bitch and her Kryptonian lapdog had
to do it their way. “Batman, you’re still
here?” “Yes!” he spat,
“what is it, J’onn?” “I wanted to thank you. That was a close call with the ion accelerator, if you hadn’t bought us the
time to… well, Atom would be gone and Plastic Man—” “Would be permanently
trapped as a mass of unstable proton soup, I know. Next time—” “Next time, I, for one, will vote to do it your way.” Batman grunted.
It was a little late for promises like that.
J’onn’s abstaining vote had stung him far worse than that Gev/R beam.
As much as Diana evangelized about leadership in the League (“Kal is
the real leader”), Batman and J’onn were the only real strategists, and Batman
had always felt that created a knowing bond between them. є˜˜You realize,˜˜э
he thought the rebuke rather than speaking it aloud, є˜˜Your
vote would have made the difference. The
brat pack follows your lead.˜˜э
є˜˜Don’t call them that,˜˜э J’onn thought back. It was true that Flash, Green Lantern and Plastic Man were apt to follow whenever Batman and the Martian jointly supported some strategy. But J’onn preferred thinking of them as Wally, Kyle and Eel, not as a voting block. є˜˜They are a
voting block,˜˜э Batman
thought dryly, and only then did J’onn realize he had let his thought float
over their telepathic link where an alert mind, such as Bruce’s, could sense
it just as he might read body language. є˜˜They’re friends, yes. Because they’re young. Because two of them replaced older heroes. Because they have things in common. And all that means they can be influenced by the same appeals. They are a voting block, J’onn. I won’t stand by and let them become a faction.˜˜э є˜˜And they’re a faction if they agree with Clark and Diana instead of you?˜˜э є˜˜Yes, because Diana has an agenda. All she cares about these days is gaining back her prestige after that disaster last year*.˜˜э Batman’s eyes met the Martian’s, and he dropped the conversational tone of their telepathic exchange for the deep menacing gravel: “Not to ever again take
a beating like that because Princess got her hair mussed.” “What are you going to
do now?” “Go home.
Analyze what went wrong.” “Wrong?
We were successful… in the end.” “Look at me, J’onn.
With these bruises, it’ll be two weeks before Bruce Wayne can go out in
public. I don’t mean to waste
that time playing solitaire. I’ll
be analyzing the battle, figuring out what went wrong, and planning a better
defense for next time. Work the
mind while the body heals.” “I see,” he shrugged
and started to leave, then turned back as an unexpected thought flashed over the
telepathic link a nanosecond before Batman disappeared in the transporter.
The Martian smiled. “Yes, I expect she will.”
Meanwhile, not quite so far from Gotham… :: Great One, :: the cloying voice groveled over the satellite hookup, ::
your lowliest and most humble servant begs to greet The Demon’s Head with the
oath of loyalty! :: “That will not be necessary, Ulstarn.
This communication must be very short, you will soon learn why.” :: Yes, my Master, your undeserving servant begs to know how he may serve. :: “I will require lodging in Gotham City for myself and an entourage of
forty-six. The top three floors of
the Imperial Hotel proved adequate last time.
And prepare a list of promising individuals who have opposed the
Detective. Successfully, mind you, I
shan’t waste my time with failures incarcerated in their prisons or
asylums.” :: My Master honors me with his orders.
Sire, your servant begs to be allowed to sign off with the oath of
loyalty… ::
Meanwhile, in the heart of Gotham… Harley Quinn tossed her last bite of pretzel to a pigeon and shuffled out the
east exit of Robinson Park. Alone.
Forlorn and alone. She didn’t even know why she’d come to the park with
Poison Ivy still incarcerated in Arkham. So
alone. So forlorn and alone.
Her Puddin’ had cast her off like so much used bath water.
And Red! Her bestest buddy Red
had cheered the news. Nobody
understood her woes. Nobody
understood her breaking heart. HER
PUDDIN’! The one and only Mistah J! And
he was done with her! Unable to stand Joker’s pointed rejection in the rec room and Ivy’s
equally pointed lack of sympathy, Harley gave one of the most astounding
pretences of sanity ever seen within the halls of Arkham Asylum.
It achieved her release in under two weeks, setting a new Arkham record,
but it booted her back out here, in Gotham, with nowhere to go.
Alone, alone, forlorn and alone. Her
heart was breaking and there was no one to turn to.
No Mr. J. No Red.
Roxy Rocket hated her living guts. “A
mere sidekick” that achieved such a prominent place in Gotham, whereas Roxy, a
crook in her own right, couldn’t get into the spotlight if she did a
striptease in Gotham Plaza. Looking up at the lush parkfront condos, Harley realized that Selina lived
in this part of town. Selina
wasn’t a bestest buddy or anything like Red, but Harley had heard her use the
phrase ‘estrogen solidarity’ one night at the Iceberg.
That was worth something. It
was worth a shot, certainly. Anything
was better than being oh so alone, alone, forlorn and alone in her misery.
With a new skip in her step, Harley trod under the canopy, past the
doorman, and into the apartment building. Approximately ten minutes later, she rushed out.
“Scary man in Catty’s apartment,” she told the doorman.
“Scary man from the Highland games, moving into Catty’s
apartment,” she told the pigeon. “Scary
man with Bride of Frankenstein hair!” she yelped to the coffee vendor,
pointing towards the building. Raoul looked at the fevered blonde, then in the direction she was pointing…
the tall redheaded man who had bought a tall espresso that morning.
“What about a nice café au lait, Miss.
You know, I’ve been on this corner for quite a while. In my experience, it doesn’t do to be a snob.
Stand outside the park long enough, you’ll see just about everything.
Just because someone is a little odd, maybe even looks like a dangerous
crazy, that doesn’t mean they don’t have $5 for a cup of coffee.” He handed her a cup, and held out his hand expectantly. Harley looked at Raoul, reminded of the Starbucks clerk Puddin’ killed that
time, and burst into tears.
To be continued…
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