Justice League of America - Batman: The Stone King Alan Grant (e book reader pc txt) 📖

stood on his native world of Mars once more, his feet planted on the very rim of Olympus Mons, the highest mountain on the Red Planet. Once, it had been a popular attraction for his people, offering the best views of any location on Mars.

Six miles below lay the great plains. Beyond Mangala Valles, Daedalia Planum stretched away to the south. To the west, the rugged Tharsis Montes blocked off all further view, but he knew that behind them lay Noctis Labyrinthus, the Maze of the Night, and the massive impact basins of Argyre and Hellas.

Strange, he thought, these new names, when once I knew them only by their Martian designations.

Perhaps he should have told NASA, when they first started sending the Voyagers and Explorers to document his world. But Martian vowels and syllables are unpronounceable for any human being. So he said nothing, and on Earth Latin and ancient Greek became the new language of Mars.

At least the old names will live on . . . while I live on.

Every year he came here, for an hour, a day, or a week–for however long it took him to purge the lure of the Red Planet from his system. A lifetime of memories was locked up in the ubiquitous red dust and black basaltic boulders that littered the plateau.

He turned to look northeast, toward the massive Boreale Chasma. Far beyond it, frozen in two hundred degrees of cold, was the northern icecap; under it lay the vast subterranean reservoirs where the precious water had seeped away. One day NASA was in for a major surprise.

Somewhere down on the plain, wan sunlight twinkled off gleaming metal. Something left behind by one of the NASA expeditions, a surface rover. Billion-dollar junk, glittering like a jewel amid the debris of his world.

The land had been living once, and it had teemed with green. The inhabitants–J'onn's people, the very roots of his existence–had been like sentient beings everywhere: good, bad, indifferent, and every moral shade in between. He had a wife then, and the most beautiful daughter. He also had friends. He had a life.

And then a devastating plague had claimed everything, not just from him, but from Mars itself. Apart from J'onn, not a single soul had survived the contagion that spread faster than they could burn the bodies of the dead.

As powerful emotion swept through him, he sank to his knees. One hand touched the ground, and he scooped up a handful of dust, letting its dreams and memories trickle slowly away through his fingers. It swirled gently in the thin, almost nonexistent atmosphere, and settled slowly to the ground.

Dust to dust . . . like the bones of my people.

He raised his eyes beneath his craglike brows, squinting against the setting sun to make out Earth. His adopted world.

J'onn thought of the friends who'd taken him in, treated him as one of their own, given purpose back to his life when he saw only misery ahead of him. He would always owe a debt to Superman and the members of the Justice League.

But in his heart he would always be a Martian, a Red Planet warrior, the last of his race.

He leaped outward, almost overcompensating for the weaker gravity, and soared down for several long, glorious minutes. The past was long gone, but while he held it sealed in his memory, in some way it would live on.

Then he landed on the plain and strode off into the red, dusty distance over the bones of his people.

CHAPTER 8

The Darknight Detective

Marlbuck Point, October 29

"And how can I help ye, laddie?"

Hamish Stewart's lilting Scottish accent cut through the quiet of the late-October noon. He stood beside the scuffed Dodge Charger that had pulled up beside him, its top down. Hamish's expression was polite as he ran his eyes over the car's driver–a broad-shouldered man with silver flecks in his hair, wearing heavy-rimmed glasses.

"Mr. Stewart?" the man asked. "I'm Dag Rawlings. I'm a–"

"Journalist, aye?" Hamish finished for him, gesturing toward the notepad and tape recorder that lay on the passenger seat.

"You're very astute, sir." Dag smiled as he unlatched the door and swung his legs out of the car and onto the gravel road. He reached back in for a sturdy walking cane and leaned on it as he stood. "But actually, I was about to say writer. There's a difference."

"Oh, I know that fine," the sturdy, middle-aged Scot replied. "I'm a writer of sorts myself. Historical research. Two books published, working on the third."

"Well, sir, I won't take up much of your valuable time." Dag squinted his eyes against the golden autumn sun as it reflected off the car's side mirror. "I'm here to see Jenny Ayles."

"Maybe," the older man mused, "but the question is, does she want to see you?"

"It's all right, Hamish," Jenny Ayles called, her footsteps crunching on the gravel as she hurried up to join them. "Mr. Rawlings called me last night. I said I'd see him. I should have told you–it just went completely out of my head."

Hamish Stewart grunted and looked at his watch. "Aye, well, just be sure ye don't take too long. I'm on a tight budget, as I'm sure ye know."

"I should know," Jenny muttered under her breath as Stewart strode off. "You remind me often enough!"

Dag smiled, his perfect white teeth marred by a broken crown at one side. "Bit of a slavedriver, is he?"

"Let's walk over to where I'm working," Jenny said, before answering his question. "No, Hamish is a joy to work for. But he has to fund his own research, because his book advances are so small."

She led him off the track and through a thick clump of bushes to an open grassy area beyond, Dag's limp slight but noticeable as he walked. They were on a small plateau about fifty feet above the ocean, and Dag could smell the salt in the cool breeze. He'd driven up to Marlbuck Point from Gotham City in