Chapter 3

Wayne Manor, Outskirts of Gotham City

Annoyed at being cut off abruptly by Wonder Woman (he was not a man used to being hung up on), Bruce Wayne tried to get her back online, but her computer wasn't responding; he suspected she was either busy or was deliberately ignoring him. Fine, he thought, bail Clark out on your own!

It was actually wrong of Diana to think that Bruce was totally indifferent to Clark's problems. Nothing concerning the lives of any member of the Justice League, no matter how seemingly trivial or inconsequential, escaped his attention. When Clark's human parents perished in that car accident nearly two years ago, Bruce had conducted his own painstakingly thorough investigation to determine whether it was due to malign intent by an enemy, human or otherwise, but he had reached the same conclusion as the local investigators: only a case of drunk-driving on the part of the big-rig driver who hit the elder Kents, and who had died also. It was a tragedy, but unfortunately a commonplace one. Clark's latest trouble would not be overlooked by him for the same reason.

Sitting in his high-backed leather executive's chair, Bruce considered the timing of this event. There had been a spike in unusual "chatter" along American military channels in the past two weeks. It aroused his curiosity, though at the moment not his alarm, although he couldn't yet determine its cause. The Justice League and the armed forces of most First World countries, including the United States, had come to a peaceful, if somewhat uneasy, understanding with one another. The Justice League would not interfere (usually) in the internal and domestic affairs of United Nation members, and in return they would not send their soldiers to hunt down and "eliminate with extreme prejudice" the Justice League. In addition there was an unwritten agreement that the League would conduct its own independent operations in the event of natural disasters and "extraordinary circumstances."

However, Bruce Wayne knew this agreement wouldn't last. One day, the world governments (or the puppet-handlers behind the scenes) would decide the Justice League had become too big and powerful, an obstacle, and then the hammer would fall. Bruce had already prepared contingencies for this event. The only question was when, and how.

Bruce knew that his friend Kal-El didn't share his views, that he thought he was just being "paranoid" and being, well, Batman. Superman was certain, with his unique sense of American optimism, that people would 'come round' to see them as benevolent helpers rather than a threat.

"Do you know, Clark," Bruce had remarked dispassionately after he told him that. "That sales of lead sheeting have risen dramatically in the past five years? I should know, Wayne Enterprises sells them. The biggest buyer is the military.

They are installing lead shields in all their major bases, particularly around certain installations, like command centers and testing laboratories. So you can't know what's going on inside."

Clark looked troubled, but he only said. "Why not? I can understand if they're afraid right now. But we can show them there's nothing to be afraid of."

They had let it drop at that. Bruce had other matters to deal with, on top of the crime problems in Gotham City during his months-long absence; of course, many had taken advantage to create havoc. It had taken him almost a year to suppress these new gangsters, who were growing increasingly ruthless and violent. It was only recently that he could turn his attention back to his discoveries following the extraordinary events on Themyscira.

Revelations he had not yet fully shared with the Justice League.

Bruce was well-versed on the life of his cousin, Randolph Carter. Carter had been an explorer, and an eccentric, who had written fantastic tales of his adventures cloaked under the guise of pulp fantasy stories, a genre popular in the twenties and thirties. Many members of their extended family, including the Waynes, had considered him a bit of a nutter, although harmless. He had vanished one day in 1928 and it was assumed he had thrown himself into the Misktaonic River and drowned; his body was never recovered. But Bruce had learned what had really happened. Somehow, Carter had crossed over into another parallel dimension, a place he called the "Dreamlands." Bruce had found him after trying to find an alternate route to Themyscira. He had found his cousin still alive, seemingly unchanged after the passing of decades, ruling a mysterious ancient city called Alar.

The inhabitants had appeared human...almost. It also seemed that Carter was not quite the same person he once was; in addition to the immortality, he had developed quite strange...abilities. Bruce hadn't yet pieced it all together. But one thing he was certain - there were powerful alien entities out there, indifferent to the presence of humanity on Earth at best, and malevolent at worst . One of them had nearly destroyed Themyscira, and nearly entered Earth's dimension, but the gate - if that was what it was - had closed in time, but not before causing worldwide chaos. Although the alien, whatever it was (Zatanna had called it Hastur) never arrived on Earth, it had created lingering psychic aftershocks, or so J'onn J'onzz reported.

"Just like the smaller tremors following a big earthquake," J'onzz had explained. "They cannot be felt by most people, except those who are sensitive to them. Like me."

"Are they still happening?"

"No, they have ceased now, I think. Yet they may still frighten those who do not know what they felt."

Arkham Asylum was one place where he had observed those aftershocks at first hand. Half the crazed inmates had become catatonic, the other half manic, their speech and behavior wild and incoherent. Even the Joker, he'd learned, had become totally lucid during the period the Black Stars had been ascendent. According to his doctors he had talked rationally (Batman could hardly imagine that) and didn't understand who he was or where he was. But once the sky returned to normal, he had returned to his usual catatonic state, except of course, for his occasional homicidal ideations.

Interesting.

He had asked Zatanna for her help, but she had been reluctant to divulge more than she had following their return from Themyscira.

"I need to know what we're up against," Bruce insisted. "Green Lantern says the Guardians won't talk to him about such things, so he's in the dark too. I don't like that."

"That's not a bad idea, actually," Zatanna said. The usually perky magician seemed uncharacteristically subdued as of late. She'd taken a "hiatus" from her Las Vegas shows. "You don't need to know anymore than you already do."

"I'm not one who believes ignorance is bliss," Batman retorted. "I want to know what you do. We don't keep secrets from each other in the League."

"You have plenty of secrets yourself, Mr. Wayne," Zatanna replied. "I'm sorry but I can't tell you anything more. If I were you, I'd just forget it...and get rid of those books in your library, for your own good."

Zatanna then had taken a leave of absence from the Justice League, without approval, but evidently she didn't care. She didn't tell anyone where she was going, although Bruce had a good hunch she was in England. He hadn't heard from her in over two months. Probably shacking up with that lout Constantine, he thought sourly.

Anyway, he found he preferred to do research alone. When he was ready, he would present his findings, but not until they were complete.

At first he wasn't sure where to begin. He knew more than he wanted to about Carter's 'friend,' the ghoul Pickman. He would save research about him for later. But he had recently discovered a clue regarding the man Carter called his Vizier, by hints he had picked up in Alar, and what Titus had told him himself. He knew the man was British, or had once lived in the isles, and like Carter, he had come from Earth to the Dreamlands, although not at the same time...perhaps a few decades later. Who had he been?

He scrolled down the images on his screen: a selection of old publications from the 1970s digitized and made available online. Once, their original paper versions had proliferated decades ago in newsstands, and were popular among those who subscribed to the reality of UFO abductions, paranormal activities, and other such nonsense. Bruce had done a simple name search, the result being that he had found the March 1975 edition of UFO WATCH: UK, a short-lived newsletter whose counterculture editors leaned towards the conspiratorial as a way of explaining contemporary events.

This particular issue was dedicated to the history of a British consortium called the Experimental Rocket Group (ERG). It was a quasi-military collection of engineers, scientists, and astronomers, dedicated to the development of manned orbital space flight. It was active from 1951-1965, under the auspices of the Ministry of Defense. Many members had circulated through the ERG, although a core of supervisory members remained constant, including its founder, Dr. Bernard Quatermass. There was a black-and-white photo included, of several men in a laboratory:

Members of the Experimental Rocket Group, circa 1963. From left to right: Arthur Galpin, Rhinehart Kleiner, Michel Grant, William Moncke, Titus Crow, Bernard Quartermass.

The man sitting next to Dr. Quatermass was younger than the man he'd met in Alar, his beard was cut differently, and his dress was reflective of the styles of the Swinging Sixities, but it was unmistakably him. Carter's Vizier Titus. Without doubt.

Professor Quatermass was the head of the ERG until 1964, when he, along with several other members, were killed in an explosion believed to have been caused by improperly stored or handled rocket fuel in an aerospace facility. Titus Crow was included in the casualty list. Soon afterwards, the ERG was disbanded. No mention as to where the surviving members went. The author of this article was of the opinion that the explosion was no accident, and that the ERG's true purpose was to prevent alien invasions of Earth.

The writer's terrible prose and misspellings irritated Bruce but he continued to read the rest of the newsletter. There was nothing else of much use, other than more wild ramblings that the ERG had discovered alien lifeforms on Earth, had in fact thwarted an alien invasion, and that world governments were in possession of alien technology. Apparently Dr. Quatermass and several of his colleagues attempted to warn others of this threat, which was why they were eliminated, and everything covered up in the highest levels of government. The rest of the ERG had, of course, denied these accusations, which the author believed was only to save their skins. None of them would speak to the author, nor to any other member of the press.

Another search of the remaining ERG members' names over the following decades showed that most of them were by now deceased. However, he could not locate obituaries for Michel Grant or William Moncke.

Bruce decided he would track down those members.

Just then, Alfred came back in with a silver tray containing a soup tureen and a carafe.

"Your dinner, Master Bruce."

"Oh, is it dinnertime already?"

"Indeed, Sir. You have been cooped up in here all day. I trust all is well?"

"I think so," Bruce picked up the papers Alfred had handed him earlier, as Alfred ladled the steaming lobster bisque into a bowl.

"I trust Miss Diana is well? She sounded quite distressed earlier."

"Oh…did she? I'm sure it's nothing. 'Miss Diana' gets worked up over nothing, quite often."

"Have you examined the EKG scans?" Alfred referred to the papers Bruce was still holding. "As you see, they are quite normal. No abnormalities in your sleep patterns, Sir."

"Hmm," Bruce rubbed his chin, ignoring the soup and rolls Alfred placed before him.

"You were expecting to find something…else?"

"I haven't dreamed, Alfred," Bruce said bluntly. "Of my parents. Not for months, now."

Ever since the fateful night that had made him whom he was, at least once a week (sometimes two or three times a week or more if he was under stress) Bruce dreamed of his parents' murder. In the dream he was a little boy again, watching helplessly as the thief shot his mother and father. Or it was like he was an observer of his own life, watching but equally helpless. Those dreams were the worst. Every time he had the dream he would wake up in a cold sweat, if they had been particularly vivid he would wake up screaming.

"Surely…that is a good development, Master Bruce?"

"I don't know," Bruce said quietly. "You see, I don't dream…of anything now. Sometimes I dream of a mist, or fog…or maybe it's nothing at all. But I feel that there's something past that, something…tangible."

Bruce didn't say it almost felt like someone, or something, was there beyond the mist. Something calling out to him…

Focus! Concentrate!

To tell him that he could almost see beyond the wall of sleep if he tried…

Alfred poured out a cup of milk for him. "I, for one, am relieved that you are no longer suffering from such debilitating dreams, Master Bruce. Perhaps you are finally beginning to heal, I daresay. In any case, you can see for yourself that you are having normal REM sleep. That's healthy, and vital for human beings. I do recall reading an article regarding the late pop musician Michael Jackson, that he suffered a lack of REM sleep in the weeks prior to his untimely death, which contributed vastly to his poor health…

"Yes, thank you Alfred," Bruce said abruptly, pulling his soup bowl to him. "That will be all."

"Yes, Sir. Oh, one more thing, Master Bruce. That young lady, Mistress Zatanna Zatara (I believe that's a stage name, if I do say so), has requested an appointment with you."

"Has she?" Bruce looked up, surprised. "I thought she was out of the country."

"Indeed she was, but I believe she has only recently returned. She has been most insistent on seeing you as soon as possible, Sir."

Bruce was silent a moment. "I suppose I'll have to see her then," he finally said. "Let her know I'll be in touch with her. When I'm ready."

Orange County

Interrogation Room, District Station 284

Clark stared at the imposing military man who'd entered the room alone and shut the door firmly behind him. The last time he had seen him was at a Thanksgiving dinner a couple of years ago at Lois' parents' house. That occasion had been unpleasant enough, almost as bad as the time before that when he'd seen him – when he was torturing him in a secret military facility. Clark hadn't forgotten that...or that he was responsible for his capture. Why he was here right now stunned him...how had he found out...?

He found that he was gripping the edge of the table, one the verge of warping it. He forced himself to relax. He had to find out if Lane knew or not.

"Clark," Sam said mildly. "This must be a surprise to you."

"I-I don't understand," Clark finally forced himself to say something. "Why are you here? Has-has something happened to Lois?"

General Lane frowned sightly at the mention of his daughter by this milquetoast, as he considered Kent. He'd disapproved of most of Lois' friends (in fact, her career choices, her hobbies, etc.), and Kent was no different. He'd disliked Kent from the moment he laid eyes on him, when she'd brought him home for dinner. Lane knew he would be the type of wimpy liberal guy Lois liked (or not liked anymore, now she was a lesbian or something).

It has been no problem to get the sheriff here to bring Clark in, the man was an old West Point classmate.

"We can say he's a 'person of interest', but we can't hold him, unless we have cause."

"No I just need to talk to him. It's a confidential military matter, I'm sure you'll understand."

"Sure do. We'll bring him in, no problem. Anything else you need from us, Sam?"

Sam Lane was tempted to say, resisting arrest and a responding hail of bullets wouldn't be too bad. He disliked Kent for another reason. Lane prided himself on knowing men, he'd been in the military thirty years. There was something very secretive about Kent, he'd decided, something he was concealing, although Lane couldn't quite pin it down, and that irritated him like hell. He couldn't shake the thought that somehow Kent influenced his daughter in a bad way, and his protective dad's mind ran wild with all sorts of what 'bad way' could be. His wife, Ellen, however, hadn't agreed with him at all and thought Clark would have been an ideal son-in-law. The thought of it made Sam Lane shudder.

"No, this isn't about Lois," General Lane said curtly. "This involves only you."

Clark tensed. He wouldn't let himself be captured and subjected to torture again. His mind suddenly flew to Diana and the baby and a bolt of fear shot through him: was this really a ruse to distract him, separate him from his family? He listened out but he heard nothing from his home.

The apprehension must have showed in his face. "You're not in trouble, Clark," Lane said. "Relax."

"'Relax?'" Anger suddenly flooded through Clark. "I was taken away in handcuffs in front of my family, everyone!"

Gee, I'm so sorry, should I send out an aide to buy you a box of tampons? General Lane bit down on his impulse; he couldn't talk to Kent like he was one of his junior enlisted soldiers. He needed the man's cooperation for this project.

"I...apologize for that," Lane replied in a different tone of voice. "But I needed to talk to you right away, in a secure environment."

Clark did relax - but only a little bit. "What is this about?"

Lane asked: "What do you know of David Kent?"

For a moment, Clark was completely blank. It took him a moment before he could answer.

"David Kent? He was...my dad's brother. All I knew was that he died before I was born."

"Did you know he was in the Army?"

Clark nodded, "I did. He died in Vietnam."

His mind went back to a memory of when he was what, nine or ten?

Pa was outside barbecuing, since the day was nice the first warm day of spring They were having hot dogs and chicken wings. Ma was setting up the picnic table outside. Pa had forgotten his apron, and sent Clark back to the house to fetch it from the dresser drawer in his bedroom. Clark ran upstairs, before realizing he didn't know which drawer it was; he knew about his 'x-ray' vision by then, but rarely used it. Instead he simply chose the bottommost drawer and yanked. The drawer flew free, surprising him - he also hadn't yet completely learned to regulate his strength. He'd toppled backwards in surprise.

The apron wasn't in the drawer. It contained a collection of miscellaneous stuff. Handkerchiefs, extra buttons, and a photo scrapbook, one he had never seen before. Clark was a curious boy. He picked it up, and began looking through it.

Black and white photographs pasted inside, most of them of the same man, dressed in Army uniforms; he was tough-looking, with light crewcut hair. In the pictures he was posing with his rifle, or with other soldiers. The backdrops were of military bases, a few showed a jungle backdrop. Clark thought he looked like Pa, but older, and smiled less. A real soldier. There was only one photo that was different from the others. An elderly man with his arms around two children, standing against the barn, the same barn on his Pa's land. He knew this must be grandpa, and the other boy was Jonathan Kent.

Like most boys, Clark was fascinated by military stuff. He eagerly leafed through the rest of the scrapbook. Citations for medals, gallantry in combat...

"What are you doing?"

The voice was loud and sharp and Clark jumped, the scrapbook falling from his lap.

"Nothing! I mean, I-"

Jonathan Kent stepped in to the room, looking grim.

"You were supposed to fetch my apron., Clark."

"I'm sorry Pa, I found this scrapbook, and I forgot all about it. I'm really sorry..."

His Pa snatched the scrapbook away from him, and Clark's face fell, crestfallen. Jonathan's anger dissipated.

"I'm sorry, boy, I didn't mean to snap at you. I just...haven't seen this book for a long time. I thought I put it in the attic with the other stuff..."

"Who's the man in the book, Pa?"

"This is your uncle...my brother David."

Clark thought he would take the book away and order him back outside, but his father sat next to him on the bedroom floor instead. He opened the scrapbook. It fell on a picture of a man in full dress uniform, wearing a green beret, his chest lined with medals and ribbons.

"I didn't know, I mean...I didn't know you had a brother."

"He died, a long time before you were born. He was in the Army, as you can see."

"Yeah, look at all these medals! He was a war hero?" Clark was young then. He was excited at the idea there might be a war hero in the family. But something in his father's face didn't seem to share his enthusiasm. "How come you never talked about him?"

"Do you know what MIA means, Clark?"

"No, Pa."

"It means Missing in Action. David went missing, and was presumed killed. We...we never got his body back."

Clark saw his father's subdued face. "Is that why you never talk about him?"

"Well...yes. The news nearly killed Grandpa. We had a memorial service at the church anyway. But the real reason...well, your brother and I never got on, I guess you could say...we fought all the time..."

"Was he a bully? Like Pete Ross?"

Jonathan smiled a little. "Yeah, a little bit like that."

"Do you miss him?"

His Pa seemed to hesitate a little, as if considering what to say. It wasn't until much later that Clark learned how much Jonathan and David Kent had been different.

"He was my brother," Jonathan finally said. "Family is always family. I try to remember the good times we had."

Ma's voice called up to them from the doorway. "What's taking so long, dinner's almost ready! Go get washed up, Clark."

"Yes, ma'am!"

When Clark was in the bathroom washing his hands, he heard his parents talking outside. Usually, he didn't let himself listen in, he had learned long ago that it was impolite. But they were talking about his war hero uncle.

"Clark found Dad's old scrapbook. I thought I'd put it away but it was in the bottom drawer."

"Oh, he did?" Ma's voice sounded strained. "What did he say?"

"Oh, he just wanted to know who he was, why I never mentioned him...I guess I should have talked to him earlier. He should know about our family. I just said he was lost in Vietnam."

"You brother was a bully, and best forgotten!" Martha's voice was angry now. "You have nothing to feel sorry for. After what he did to me...well, that's all in the past now. No need to drag it out of there."

"You think I shouldn't have told him?"

A short silence.

"No, you did right to tell him. It shouldn't be like some ugly family secret we keep locked up in the basement. We have to teach him that family should be honest with each other..."

"Clark?" Lane was looking at him closely across the table.

Clark blinked. "What? Oh...I'm sorry. This is just bringing up memories."

"What do you know about the circumstances of Sergeant Kent's status?"

"Well...I knew he was MIA, later presumed killed, in 1971 I think. I saw the letter in a scrapbook my parents kept."

"Your uncle was a Green Beret in Vietnam, that is true. He was an excellent soldier."

"But what has this got to do with me?" Clark asked, staring at the general. "Why bring me here to tell me that?"

General Sam Lane looked at him for a moment, then said slowly, carefully choosing his words. "Sergeant Kent didn't die in Vietnam."

"What are you talking about?"

"He's alive, Clark. Your uncle's alive."

To be continued...

[A/N: The mystery continues! What will this revelation mean for the Kents? Or the Justice League? What's Batman's latest scheme? Tune in next chapter to find out!

Borrowing a few characters here: Titus Crow is the creation of Brian Lumley, who wrote a series of Lovecraftian novels featuring Crow as a kind of psychic detective (like Constantine!) the short stories are kind of good, but overall they're pretty pulpy.

Some of you (UK especially?) may recognize Quatermass from a series of old movies back in the 60s and 70s! I really liked how creepy they were! Created by Nigel Kneale, but I don't think he was influenced by Lovecraft particularly, although they do have that feel, so a little shout out to him here as a cameo.

As always, please review, please ;)