Man of Steel: The Official Movie Novelization

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The lights came back on at NORTHCOM, where General Swanwick was already on the phone with the White House. Numerous monitors continued to track the “Kryptonian” vessel.

“Yes, sir,” the general said. “We’re activating the Joint Emergency Evacuation Plan, but I’d advise against using Air Force One. I’m not sure the skies are safe.”

To be honest, he wasn’t sure anywhere was safe.

Lois stood at the window of her cluttered third-floor apartment, gazing up at the unnatural black shape that loomed high in the sky. Zod’s ship was still visible, even by daylight, and it didn’t look like it was going anywhere.

Not without Clark.

She had tried calling Smallville, leaving numerous messages on Martha Kent’s voicemail, but so far she hadn’t managed to get hold of Clark or his mom. She guessed that he was dealing with bigger things than returning her calls. She just wished she had a better idea of what exactly was at stake.

Who was this Zod? And what did he want with Clark?

Her TV droned in the background. She half-listened as Woodburn—of all people—discussed the crisis with David Rowland, a network talking head with more phony gravitas than journalistic chops. He was barely a step above Woodburn when it came to professional ethics.

“I think the question everyone is asking this morning is, who is this guy? And why has he kept his existence a secret from us for so long? I mean, we hardly know anything about him. Isn’t that right?”

“We know nothing,” Woodburn declared. “And that’s why I’m speaking out right now. He could be a criminal for all we know. And if he is, why should we pay for his crimes?”

“Aren’t people innocent until proven guilty?” Rowland asked.

“Sure,” Woodburn conceded. “But this guy’s not human.”

Lois frowned, afraid that too many other people would feel the same way. She trusted Clark, and owed him her life, but to the rest of the world, he was just a scary alien infiltrator, posing as a human—and maybe a fugitive to boot.

She moved to turn off the TV, but her phone rang before she could locate the remote. She picked up her phone instead, and as she did, Woodburn kept right on with his rabble-rousing.

“Kal-El, or whatever his name is… if he doesn’t really mean us any harm, he should turn himself in to his people, and face the consequences. And if he won’t, then we should. Lois Lane knows who the guy is. She’s the one we should be questioning.”

“Terrific,” Lois muttered. She should have known he’d rat her out like that, just to get a little extra air time. Annoyed and distracted, she answered the ringing phone.

Perry spoke before she could even say hello.

“Are you watching this crap?” he asked. She could imagine him pacing back and forth in his office, watching the same channel on his snazzy LCD screen. Lombard and Jenny and the rest were probably glued to the tube, as well.

“It’s been running all day,” Perry continued. “And for once, I actually agree with Woodburn. Where is he, Lois? Do you know?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t say,” she replied.

“The entire world’s been threatened,” he argued. “This isn’t the time to fall back on journalistic integrity.”

“I’m not, Perry,” she said, struggling to keep her cool. “This isn’t about me grandstanding. He said he’s here to help us. And I believe him.”

The conviction—and passion—in her voice startled even her. When did she become the president of the Clark Kent Fan Club? When he carried her bags through the snow, or when he healed her busted insides with his laser eyes?

“Lois, listen to me. This is serious.” He lowered his voice. “The FBI’s here, interviewing everyone. And they’re throwing around words like ‘treason.’”

She heard brakes squealing outside. Cranky Metropolis motorists honked in protest. She dashed to the window and looked to see what the commotion was, afraid that she already knew the answer.

“You need to get yourself a lawyer immediately.”

Black vans pulled up at the curb outside the building. Men in dark suits piled out of the vehicles, accompanied by a paramilitary unit in full body armor. The Feds clearly weren’t taking any chances.

“I gotta go, Perry!” she said quickly. Hanging up, she scooted out of her apartment and sprinted to the stairwell at the end of the hall. She ran down four flights of stairs, wincing at the sound of her own footsteps, until she reached the basement.

Washing machines and dryers churned in the laundry room. She ran past the tenant storage units to the back stairs, which led to a back alley that ran behind the building. Rusty dumpsters crowded the narrow way. A cool autumn wind blew litter into a tiny whirlwind.

She started down the alley, only to spot some G-Men at the end of the block. Changing direction, she speed-walked toward the opposite end, hoping she could make herself scarce before the Feds surrounded the entire building. As a rule, she preferred asking the questions, rather than being interrogated herself.

Just a few more yards, she thought. Then maybe I can track down Clark and find out what the real story is.

“Hey!” A voice shouted behind her. “Stop where you are!”

Damn, Lois thought, and she broke into sprint. The agents chased after her, shouting louder and more urgently. She prayed they weren’t authorized to use deadly force.

“Stop where you are!”

She’d almost reached the end of the alley when another black SUV jumped the curb, cutting her off. Agents in suits and soldiers in body armor poured out of the van, brandishing automatic weapons. They swarmed toward Lois.

“On the ground! On the ground, now! Hands behind your back!”

So much for making a discreet exit. She dropped onto the filthy pavement and they surrounded her. Immediately her wrists were cuffed behind her back. Then the agents in suits yanked her to her feet and dragged her toward the waiting vehicle, where a familiar face nodded at her.

Colonel Nathan Hardy, from Ellesmere.

Lois wondered if she would get a bucket this time.

Trinity Lutheran Church was a refuge from the fast-paced streets of Metropolis, a place for prayer and solemn contemplation. Sunlight illuminated the stained-glass windows and cast a heavenly glow on the altar below. Incense flavored the tranquil atmosphere.

But not even the church could escape the impending threat from the heavens. Father Daniel Leone listened anxiously to the radio as he swept the front of the sanctuary. The alarming reports were enough to shake anyone’s faith.

“—the alien ship hovering above Metropolis has remained silent. In response, the President has declared a nationwide state of emergency—”

Father Leone looked up from his work. Evening services were still hours away, so the pews were largely deserted, save for a troubled-looking young man seated in the back. The priest did not recognize the visitor as one of his usual parishioners, but observed that the stranger appeared to be deep in thought.

He wondered if his visitor was as worried as he was.

“Come on! Fight back!”

Ken Braverman shoved Clark backward into a chain-link fence at the edge of the park. His backpack slipped from his shoulder and fell to the ground. Books spilled at his feet. Mocking laughter assailed Clark.

A crowd gathered to witness his latest humiliation.

Another year, another group of bullies.

It was a sunny day in Smallville, and Clark had hoped to get in a little outdoor reading while his dad was picking groceries up in town. But it looked like Braverman and his pals had other ideas. Even after what had happened, they were still tormenting him. It was as if they didn’t believe it—as if they were testing him.

Maybe they were actually starting to forget…

The toughs were fifteen and sixteen—a couple of years older than Clark, but he spotted several of his own classmates among the audience—including Pete Ross who stood sheepishly at the back of the crowd, looking uncomfortable. There were also a fair number of girls watching, which made the embarrassing spectacle a hundred times worse.

“Get up, Kent!” Braverman said.

If only I could fight back, Clark thought, seething in frustration. He wanted nothing more than to punch his tormenters all the way into the next county, show them what he was really capable of. But then he remembered the alien space capsule, hidden on his parents’ farm—and the secret that needed to stay hidden, as well.

No matter what.

Braverman feinted a punch, forcing Clark to flinch like any ordinary person would. The other boys laughed uproariously and, even worse, some of the girls giggled behind their hands. Playing to the crowd, Braverman upended Clark’s backpack, causing the books to tumble out again. He snatched one up at random and scornfully read the title aloud.

“Plato’s The Republic.” He snorted, as though reading Plato—or even just reading—was for losers. “What a fag!”

Like you even know what it’s about, Clark thought, but he bit his tongue. He even grabbed onto a fence post to hold himself back. Maybe Braverman would get bored and leave him alone soon.

No such luck. The other kid got right in Clark’s face, smirking the entire time.

“So that’s it?” he taunted. “That’s all you got?” The bully poked Clark in the chest, but not hard enough to break his finger. “C’mon, Kent…”

Clark’s grip tightened on the steel post. For a second, he was sorely tempted to teach this gang a lesson they would never forget. Ruby fire hid behind his angry eyes. His muscles tensed.

It would almost be worth it.

But instead, he turned his eyes downward, refusing the challenge. The teenage audience, hoping for a fight, groaned in disappointment. Girls tittered loudly enough that Clark could have heard them from a thousand miles away. His cheeks burned hotly.

Braverman just shook his head in disgust. He bounced the book off Clark’s chest, but he still couldn’t get a rise out of his meek, mild-mannered target. So he drew back his fist, this time for real, only to balk when he spotted Jonathan Kent approaching the park, carrying a bag of groceries.

He lowered the fist, apparently thinking twice about beating Clark up right in front of his father.

“Whatever,” he muttered, and he turned away.

Likewise the crowd dispersed, seeking other entertainment. Clark didn’t know whether to be relieved or mortified by his dad’s timely arrival.

I’m thirteen years old, he thought, and I’m not even allowed to stand up for myself.

He let go of the post, which was crimped where he’d grabbed it. His fingers had left deep impressions in the metal. Part of Clark wished that he’d left his mark on Braverman instead, even if that might have led to questions, and investigations, and everything his parents had worked so hard to avoid, all these years.

He bent to pick up his books. To his surprise, Pete Ross came forward to help him. He picked up Plato’s The Republic and handed it back to Clark, still unable to meet his eyes.

Jonathan stopped a short distance away, and waited.

“I wanted to help,” Pete mumbled, “but, you know—”

He had changed since Clark had saved him from drowning. He was less cocky, and more inclined to leave Clark alone.

“It’s okay,” Clark said, and he meant it. He didn’t expect Pete to fight his battles for him. Any small kindness was appreciated. The boy recovered another book, handed it to him, then drifted away.

Clark hoped Pete wouldn’t be too hard on himself for not coming forward. It was enough that he hadn’t joined in the tormenting.

His father waited until Pete was gone before stepping closer.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“You know they can’t,” Clark said bitterly.

“That’s not what I meant,” his dad said. “Are you all right?”

Clark wasn’t sure. He looked into his father’s eyes.

“You want the truth,” he replied. “I hate them. I wanted to hit him so bad—”

“I know you did,” Jonathan said. “Hell, part of me even wanted you to. But then what? Would it make you feel any better? They pick on you because you’re different. That’s what people do. We’re hard-wired that way. You want to hit back. I get it. It’s easy… especially for someone like you.

“But showing mercy?” he added. “That actually takes character. That takes real strength.”

I know, I know, Clark thought. But it still sucks… big time.

His father wasn’t finished. He spoke carefully, making sure Clark was listening.

“You just have to decide what kind of man you want to grow up to be, Clark. Because whoever that man is, good character or bad, he’s going to change the world.”

Right now Clark would have settled for just getting through junior high with a modicum of dignity. But he understood what his father was saying. Like it or not, his special abilities were a burden—and a responsibility—he couldn’t escape. He could either use them the right way, like saving Pete and the others, or he could cause a lot of damage, maybe to people like Ken Braverman.

He just wished the Bravermans of the world didn’t make that choice so tricky sometimes…

“Can I help you?” the priest asked.

Clark looked up to see the priest gazing down on him with a concerned expression on his face. Memories of Smallville retreated, as his present-day dilemma descended on him like the alien ship hanging in the sky.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he apologized, reluctant to burden the man with his troubles. “I just… needed someone to talk to, I guess.”

“I’d be happy to sit with you, if you like.” He joined Clark in the pew. “What’s on your mind?”

Clark doubted the priest had ever heard a confession like this before.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Wherever you want.”

Clark began cautiously, keeping things vague.

“In my work… I often have the opportunity to save people.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“It is. But sometimes I have to make choices—”

Father Leone nodded as if he understood.

“Every time a doctor has to triage a patient, or a dispatcher has to decide where to send a squad car, they’re choosing, he said. “It’s part of life. That’s what makes us human.”

Clark took the plunge.

“What if I’m not human?”

The priest’s eyes widened in surprise. An uneasy expression came over his face. Clark heard the man’s pulse speed up.

“The ship that appeared last night,” he said. “I’m the one they’re looking for.”

Clark half-expected Father Leone to run for help, perhaps shout for the authorities, but the priest stayed where he was. Although his body language was considerably warier than it had been before, the father kept on talking to him.

“Do you know why they want you?”

Clark shook his head.

“No,” he admitted. “I’ve lived here my whole life. Until last night, I thought I was the only one of my people left. But this General Zod—” He decided to spare the priest a lesson in Kryptonian history and politics, which he still barely understood. “Even if I surrender, there’s no guarantee he’ll keep his word. But if there’s a chance I can save earth by turning myself in, shouldn’t I take it?”

Father Leone regarded him with obvious sympathy. He seemed to understand the tremendous weight of Clark’s dilemma. There was so much at stake—including, perhaps, the fate of two very different peoples. How could even a superman know what was best for the world?

“You want me to make the choice for you,” the priest said gently. “I can’t.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped. For the first time since learning to fly, he felt trapped. Was this what Krypton’s terrible gravity felt like? He wished his human father was still alive to counsel him.

“What does your gut tell you?” the priest asked.

“That Zod cannot be trusted,” he replied. Zod had launched a civil war on Krypton, and Clark shuddered to think what he had in store for Earth. “Problem is, I’m not sure the people of Earth can be, either.”

He realized how harsh that sounded. He hoped Father Leone didn’t take it the wrong way, as a threat or a rebuke. Fearing he’d said too much, Clark stood up and started to ease his way out of the pew.

“Look, I’m sorry I bothered you.”

The priest waved away Clark’s apologies. Then he offered the best advice he could.

“Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith first,” he said. “The trust part comes later.”

How much did Clark trust humanity?

And how far did he have to go to earn their trust?