extraordinary strength. Our geneticists are investigating the effects for our eugenics program. Some of the best Soviet minds have come to study them. You Americans have your Superman, comrade—the Soviet Union needs its own.”
Luthor could hear clear evidence of amazing strength just by listening to the damage the former workers were doing to the reinforced bunker. His mind was racing with ideas about how to exploit the properties of the odd green meteorite: as a power source, a medical treatment, a means to transform workers into a superpowerful force of his own. He would have his LuthorCorp labs run a full analysis on the specimen. “And?”
Ceridov seemed embarrassed. “Unfortunately, these mutants burn up a lifetime of strength within only a week or two, and then they die.” He added, as if it was an afterthought, “Our studies remain incomplete, since the beasts have also killed four of our best researchers.”
“And what happens to the bodies after the mutants die?”
“If we can remove the cadavers before the others tear them to shreds—not a trivial operation, I assure you—the specimens are dissected.”
“I would like to see one. Just how…extreme are the physical alterations?”
“Quite extreme.” General Ceridov took him to a nearby building made of concrete blocks, and he shoved aside a metal door. The interior was dank and full of shadows, kept at a very cold temperature. Wisps of steam curled around two large misshapen bodies lying on slabs, waiting to be autopsied.
Luthor stared. Extreme indeed. They no longer looked human at all. Seeing the horrific changes, he looked uneasily at the glowing green rock in his hand. “I would like a lead-lined box to contain this, please, for my journey home.”
GOTHAM CITY
T HE HEADQUARTERS OF THE LARGE CORPORATION WAS A shining steel tower, a gleaming monument in the heart of Gotham City. Wayne Tower’s modern architectural design stood out amid the downtown’s lesser, yet still imposing, Gothic monstrosities.
On Tuesdays, Bruce attended the main board of directors meeting in the glass-enclosed boardroom. Wayne Enterprises was so widespread, with so many divisions, investments, interests, and facilities, that no single discussion could cover all aspects. But once a week the ten directors were supposed to discuss the most important issues that concerned the company as a whole. Although the administrators expected little from him, Bruce insisted on sitting in nevertheless. Because he owned the controlling share of the company, they had to tolerate his presence.
Bruce took care to pretend a certain lack of interest at each meeting. Outside of these Tuesday gatherings, though, he watched the men far more closely than they realized. They would have been very surprised to learn how much he already knew about them.
“On today’s agenda, Mr. Wayne,” began Scott Thomson, vice president of administration and marketing, “is the redesign of the Wayne Enterprises logo. Our corporate logo is the face we show to the world. It symbolizes all we do, and we have received input from all the division heads. But now we very much need your input.” With his smooth, deep voice, he made the matter sound exceptionally important, to mollify Bruce.
Sitting at the head of the long conference room table, Bruce could think of many matters that were more vital, but he simply smiled. “Show me the designs. I assume the marketing department has narrowed the field down to the best?”
“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” said Larry Buchheim, vice president of the propulsion systems division, with a nod. Buchheim rarely had good news to report, always insisting that he needed a budget increase (though whenever Bruce secretly inspected the ledgers he found surplus funding).
Thomson stepped over to four easels at the far end of the room, which his underlings in marketing had prepared. As though he had rehearsed it for a scene, he unveiled the potential logos one at a
Luthor could hear clear evidence of amazing strength just by listening to the damage the former workers were doing to the reinforced bunker. His mind was racing with ideas about how to exploit the properties of the odd green meteorite: as a power source, a medical treatment, a means to transform workers into a superpowerful force of his own. He would have his LuthorCorp labs run a full analysis on the specimen. “And?”
Ceridov seemed embarrassed. “Unfortunately, these mutants burn up a lifetime of strength within only a week or two, and then they die.” He added, as if it was an afterthought, “Our studies remain incomplete, since the beasts have also killed four of our best researchers.”
“And what happens to the bodies after the mutants die?”
“If we can remove the cadavers before the others tear them to shreds—not a trivial operation, I assure you—the specimens are dissected.”
“I would like to see one. Just how…extreme are the physical alterations?”
“Quite extreme.” General Ceridov took him to a nearby building made of concrete blocks, and he shoved aside a metal door. The interior was dank and full of shadows, kept at a very cold temperature. Wisps of steam curled around two large misshapen bodies lying on slabs, waiting to be autopsied.
Luthor stared. Extreme indeed. They no longer looked human at all. Seeing the horrific changes, he looked uneasily at the glowing green rock in his hand. “I would like a lead-lined box to contain this, please, for my journey home.”
GOTHAM CITY
T HE HEADQUARTERS OF THE LARGE CORPORATION WAS A shining steel tower, a gleaming monument in the heart of Gotham City. Wayne Tower’s modern architectural design stood out amid the downtown’s lesser, yet still imposing, Gothic monstrosities.
On Tuesdays, Bruce attended the main board of directors meeting in the glass-enclosed boardroom. Wayne Enterprises was so widespread, with so many divisions, investments, interests, and facilities, that no single discussion could cover all aspects. But once a week the ten directors were supposed to discuss the most important issues that concerned the company as a whole. Although the administrators expected little from him, Bruce insisted on sitting in nevertheless. Because he owned the controlling share of the company, they had to tolerate his presence.
Bruce took care to pretend a certain lack of interest at each meeting. Outside of these Tuesday gatherings, though, he watched the men far more closely than they realized. They would have been very surprised to learn how much he already knew about them.
“On today’s agenda, Mr. Wayne,” began Scott Thomson, vice president of administration and marketing, “is the redesign of the Wayne Enterprises logo. Our corporate logo is the face we show to the world. It symbolizes all we do, and we have received input from all the division heads. But now we very much need your input.” With his smooth, deep voice, he made the matter sound exceptionally important, to mollify Bruce.
Sitting at the head of the long conference room table, Bruce could think of many matters that were more vital, but he simply smiled. “Show me the designs. I assume the marketing department has narrowed the field down to the best?”
“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” said Larry Buchheim, vice president of the propulsion systems division, with a nod. Buchheim rarely had good news to report, always insisting that he needed a budget increase (though whenever Bruce secretly inspected the ledgers he found surplus funding).
Thomson stepped over to four easels at the far end of the room, which his underlings in marketing had prepared. As though he had rehearsed it for a scene, he unveiled the potential logos one at a
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