The CBS Evening News with Dan Rather, October 16, 2001:
"Finally tonight, an editorial comment. Every modern president has had his share of detractors—including Lex Luthor. Yet perhaps strangely, there seem to be no protestors outside the White House, at least not anymore. The chants of 'Not My President' from early in the year have gone away. Replaced instead by what any reasonable person might call meaningful legislation passed by a grateful Congress, the ninety-nine to one confirmation of Supreme Court Justice Kagan, a fossil fuel moratorium set to take effect on January the first two thousand and two, and a host of other accomplishments that have silenced this president's early critics. Those criticisms have been replaced by a growing candlelight vigil. People of all ages and creeds have gathered outside the South Lawn and the mood seems generally respectful. There's a gentleman behind me with a sign that reads 'Pray for Kahndaq'. Things have gone quiet, which says perhaps that President Luthor is more than just approved of—he is loved."
Luthor took the meeting in the Oval Office. For some reason, the Cabinet protested. Lane and Waller and Pete—and Frank Rock, who had seen fit to invite himself to things lately—were sitting in the davenports opposite each other, the low, flat, blandly yellow davenports he was on the verge of replacing. Something green, perhaps, mid-century. Herman Miller. This place reeks of Georgian traditions. He was about to tear them down.
He was leaning on the Resolute Desk, arms folded over his chest, and smiling. Staring at the floor and the shine of his Cole Haans. Lane was talking and Luthor was doing his best to tune it out.
"…Look, all I'm saying is, it's not secure to have the meeting in here."
Waller said, "Frank, what would it take to enhance security?"
Frank thought about it. "With Her Majesty? It's hard to say."
"Short of putting a titanium cage around the office?" Pete said.
Frank looked at him. "Possibly."
Luthor looked at Pete and gave him a nod. Quiet now.
Lane said, "Two armed guards at every entrance. Myself and Frank here ready at the door."
Pete rolled his eyes and slouched into the davenport. "What are you gonna do if she tries something, Sam, draw a pearl-handled revolver on her?"
"You jealous, Mister Vice President?"
"I had hoped," Luthor said. "Pete would take the meeting with me."
That seemed to shut Lane up. He tightened and said only, "Yes, sir."
"Yes sir?" Frank looked between Lane and Luthor. "No. Absolutely not. It's a security threat and if General Lane doesn't see that, I will."
"Frank's right," Waller said. She wasn't looking anyone, instead tapping away at her PowerBook. "The Queen Bee is notorious. She could kill you, Lex. Pete too. Do you want Horne to take over?"
Pete's eyes got wide and he considered it. He said, "Christ. No."
Luthor surveyed the room.
"It's fine then," he said. "Pete goes somewhere nice for safekeeping. It's better if I don't know. Amanda, Sam and the rest of the Cabinet remain in DC. I'll see to the Queen myself. Mercy can stand outside with a musket or something if it will soothe Frank's ruffled feathers."
Waller said, "Yes, sir."
"Good." He stood away from the desk and straightened his suit. "If there's nothing else, I'd like the room alone with Pete."
One by one they stood and bowed and left. The bowing had become a thing in recent days. He couldn't remember who started it but it had become a ritual among this cabal. This little cabinet.
Luthor went to the window. Beyond, and down the angle he could see on the South Lawn, they were finishing up the pathway to the fence. Good.
"Sir, is something wrong?"
"Lex," he said. "You must call me Lex."
Pete did not move. "Sir, I want you to know it's difficult for me to do that. It's a matter of respect."
Luthor looked at him. Those brilliant green eyes narrowed and locked onto Pete. "Of course, I understand." After a pause he said, "What's bothering you."
Pete looked over his shoulder to the door. They were gone. Good. He turned back. "Why are you doing this?"
Luthor looked at him again. This time the face was stone and frowning, the eyebrows angled sharp and the head smooth in the low light. Such an odd expression, Pete thought.
"Doing what?"
"Meeting with her. It's…it makes no sense, Lex. I think we should be focused on security after the Manhunter's little stunt."
"We will," Luthor said. "The Manhunter will be dealt with soon. Tell me what's really bothering you."
Pete waited. After a moment he said, "Lots of little things."
Luthor looked back out the window.
He said, "I know who Superman is. And I know who you are. In relation to him. I chose you for this job, Pete. I wanted to see what you'd do. And you didn't disappoint. You made a nice show on announcement day and you and he haven't spoken since. I doubt you ever will again. Your wife was in love with him. Perhaps she still is. And here you are."
Pete spoke but it was frail and hollow: "I don't..."
Luthor looked at him and his face changed again. "Don't you wonder why Lana doesn't come here? Why she doesn't come to the State Dinners or make herself seen in public with me?"
Pete froze. But not in terror. His lips pursed, half open, and he seemed to leer at Luthor. He said, "What did you do."
Luthor sat. Luxuriant behind the desk. "Years ago. Where else do you think my metahuman research started. She knew everything. And she gave it up so readily."
Then Pete felt himself tighten up. He felt a fist draw back and aim for Luthor's face, his stupid fucking face and his big shiny bald head, that stupid piece of—
Pete breathed. He clenched his teeth together, he felt like he had to. Had to do something. He felt his eyes burning and his breath quickening and knew it was tears. He was losing it.
"We existed at the beginning of the age of superheroes, Pete. I will exist at the end of it. And the Queen Bee and I? We go back, I don't mind telling you. Black Adam…we all know each other. So what you told Superman? Maybe I'm not some supervillain?"
Pete stood by the window. His body kind of frozen there. He was vaguely aware he was breathing but it was a short, paralyzed effort. He breathed, and thought about it. About things. And in a moment the paralysis faded. He turned to track Luthor and his eyes narrowed. He drew a weak gasp of air over dry lips and felt its sour taste in the back of his throat.
"That's not true. Superman—"
"They'll come for me," Luthor said. "You know that, too. Superman and all his friends. One day they'll float down, rip the roof off and decide I'm the worst thing for the country. Then it'll be your turn. And what a turn. The turn you've been waiting, and preparing for, for years. Ever since that High School trip."
Pete was pacing now. He was breathing greedy. The gears were turning at a feverish pace. After a minute he stopped. Looked at Luthor.
"So yes it's all true," Luthor said. "And it makes such a riveting story, doesn't it. President Evil. A grand conspiracy to change the country—the world. Make things the way I want them. Murder, chaos, sex. Conspiracy with a foreign power, working with my old super-villain friends in a swamp outside Gotham, even trading away Doomsday for political considerations, although you knew about that didn't you."
Pete breathed. He looked away. A million miles away. There were things he knew and things he didn't. And if any of this got out...
"But of course, no one believes it. And no one ever will. Because that's how good I am. At making things disappear. Do you understand."
Pete stood there. He swallowed and breathed. His vision blurred—the tears were coming. But he was always good at pushing them back down. Midwestern trick: take your emotions and push them right back down to hell where they belong.
He looked at Luthor.
Lex.
"So what do we do."
"We're in the endgame," Luthor said. "In one year, we've legalized same-sex marriage, stacked the court the way you wanted, balanced the budget, we're this close to electric cars and that fossil fuel moratorium I promised. We even wiped out a couple of miserable extremists in their caves. I will meet with the Queen Bee, we will have peace in the Middle East, and all our other accomplishments will pale in comparison. We'll do these things that Superman can't. A world that doesn't need him. So that when he comes, Pete, he'll have nothing to do with all his power. Do you hear me. Nothing."
Pete nodded. He wiped his lips and said okay.
Luthor looked out the window and scowled. "This is my house. I'm not leaving."
Themyscira.
Was her home.
But she was here in Italy.
Avernus was the gateway to the other side and it was there that she felt the strongest pull. The day and age was dark and in need of explanation.
She remembers.
When she is young and the world is young as well. She is young, yes, but she is growing. In physical strength, in intellectual strength. And the strength in her heart grows fastest. She believes this with all her heart. Not just that she will grow up and inherit the mantle of the Wonder Woman. Not that she will be their champion in some token way. But that she must do all she can to remain worthy of the title. Accomplishments are no good on their own. They must be continuously justified, the self must continuously improve. She believes this fully. That she must do as much as she can for her sisters, for the gods, and the world itself. It is, as Hippolyta has told her many times, a sacred duty. And then other things happen. She grows, and the world grows. Things change. Things fall apart. Through trial and tribulation, through the decimation of her home by evil Gods, through resettling herself in a new city and the true friends there, through meeting a young woman named Cassie, full of heart and destined for more—
Through all of that. She has her fears and doubts. As always. Alongside the love in her heart, they define who she is. This princess. This Wonder Woman.
And so here now, in a widened gap between the mountain and the earth, Diana descended. Not as the Wonder Woman, that storied champion of the Amazons. No.
She came to Italy as Aeneas before her, in raiments, as a beggar, supplicant and desperate. Simple vermilion robes wrapped tight around her. Her hair hanging free and without style. She wore weathered caligae, boots of the type her legionary cousins wore in an older world. How appropriate, she thought. In an age of elephantine greed and superior corruption, appropriate the articles of vain men. Little boots they would trample you under. So yes, she travelled as a questioning beggar. But not a defenseless one.
The path twisted down into the fumarole, and smoke billowed forth, occluding her vision. She put one hand out to one side and felt along the rock wall. Feeling the atoms, the very turn of the universe, sing beneath her fingers. You are so old, she thought, and full of history. You have seen much. What stories there are in you.
In stones we see our past. Where we have been—and where we shall be.
The earth crumbled and cracked beneath her caligae. At a descending set of switchbacks she stopped. Breathed deep. The smoke became steam—volcanic exhaust and she breathed deep the sulfur's toxic sting. It was a moment of strength, a show of willpower.
She continued.
Through the steam, the smoke, the mephitic ether soaking into her.
She breathed deep. And kept going.
Eventually the steam, the shapeless passageway, thinned and became a darkened chamber. A single candle sat on the ground ahead of her.
And a woman on a stone bench beside it. She was dressed plainly, and sat hunched over, as if praying to the basalt wall before her. She turned to one side as if gazing at the lonely flame.
"Sibyl."
The Sibyl looked upon her. A frown, perhaps, or a scowl. Sadness that penetrated Diana's soul.
"I...thought it best," Diana said and bowed. "In respect for your many years and sacrifices."
"You are no priestess?"
"Did my cousins not show you proper fealty all those years ago, my lady? Is it not in my nature to memorialize their honor?"
"You walk," the Sibyl and looked up at the wall. "In their shadow. Will you also weep empty tears over a lost love, like pius Aeneas?"
"I only seek knowledge."
"You seek totems," the Sibyl said. "Truth is not a trinket to hold in your hand. It lives bodiless in your mind and your heart. Truth is all around us and within us."
"I ask humbly, my lady. My world is beset by problems."
The Sibyl looked away.
"Will you still sit in passivity while the world is unmade? Or will I have to fight you as well."
"Save your anger for the ones you believe deserve it. The men who would unmake your world."
"Alexander Luthor," Diana said.
The Sibyl breathed, warm and seductive. "And more."
Diana touched her face, the warmth of her. The grist of volcanic sulphur, imperceptible to the insensitive hand, on her alabaster skin. She closed her eyes.
"You know the others," the Sibyl said. "Men of fire. Men of magic."
"The Demon's Head."
"Yes," Sibyl said. "The Time Abyss. And..."
Diana went deeper. Further back in the Sibyl's ancient mind.
Men of magic.
No. Man.
Just one.
A champion once, but now no longer.
Cast out.
"Adam," Diana said. A gasp, a whisper on her tongue.
The Sibyl whispered. "Why have you come to me?"
"The gods cannot speak to me," Diana said. "I need wisdom only one as ancient as you can provide."
"You flatter yourself with sadness," the Sibyl muttered. "Your doubt is self-created and unnecessary. Your world and your heart are caught in the gulf between things, the turn of choice, and the passing of one world in fiery holocaust. This is the truth Hippolyta would never tell you, the cruelest lesson of Iliupersis: all worlds end. In the final analysis even Gods must die."
Diana breathed.
She looked down at herself, at her hands through tear-filled eyes. She looked back up, and the Sibyl was looking at her.
The Sibyl reached out and touched her face. "You have the love of humanity in your heart. But it is a fragile thing. You believe they are worth fighting for or else they will be lost forever. We have seen that, too, have we not."
Diana wiped the tears from her eyes. She whispered, "Yes."
"Fight, then, defend what is dearest to you even as this age passes into memory. If it is to be an end, make it the noblest ending in history."
So this is the end of the Queen Bee.
The limousine picks her up at Reagan National. Jenner is leaning against a baggage carousel in the claim area and looking at the floor, at his shoes, at his watch, bored, bored, bored and waiting on her. He pulls the aviators down on his nose and eyes her. Just like the rest. Almost like Lois Lane. That swagger. That entitlement.
He's starting to get sick of this.
He crunches the burning end of an American Spirit between thumb and forefinger and walks up to her. He says, "Your Majesty," and she stops. Sticks her head up. Looks down her nose at him. Christ almighty she actually looks down her nose at him. He says, "Your car is this way."
She says nothing. But she follows him. At the exit a wing of Secret Servicemen fall in line behind them. The car is a Lincoln stretch, a holdover Luthor tells the Secret Service he prefers over the armored Chevy monstrosities. She opens the door herself and slides in. Jenner drives and stares at the mirror every so often.
She is quiet and contemplative, staring out the window and absorbing her surroundings as they travel to the White House, and Jenner studies her in turn. She wears a full-length black dress with a black jacket, cinched at the hip. A broad black hat, the brim tipped in front of her eyes at a jaunty angle. She wants so badly to look dangerous and closed off—a mystery to be unravelled, a kiln waiting to be fired. A strong, silent heart waiting to break a weaker one. He's seen it before. Lois at least seemed to wear it well. On the infamous Queen Bee of Bialya it was a cheap suit.
They arrive. The meeting is published, and discussed in favorable media outlets—CNN, Paul Gustavson's column—but it is not meant to be a major event. The goal is not flash or show. The goal, ostensibly, is constructive solutions to the problems that plague their world. Or so the press releases say.
The truth is much worse.
The truth.
As she steps out of the limo and holds that magnificent hat to her head as the breeze kicks up. As she struts between the assemblage of men—weak as water, and so far beneath her that they do not even deserve the full devastating effects of her mercy. As she passes the Marine holding the door to the West Wing. He says only, "Ma'am," and she smiles at him. She slows but only for a moment, locking eyes with him. He is tall and proud, handsome and strong, and she thinks perhaps she will use her talents on him. Convince him to find a weapon and cause a scene. Kill them, she thinks but does not say. Kill them all. And first among equals should be Luthor.
She keeps walking.
It all seems too perfunctory. The staff welcomes her. She says hello and how are you, and their Secretary of Defense, a balding and unassuming nonfactor named Eiling welcomes her on behalf of his nation. His look belies nothing of their shared history.
"This is where I leave you, Your Majesty. I hope you have a productive meeting."
She bows to him. Ever so slightly. When she stands back up they lock eyes and in that moment their entire history comes and goes. A monster, a brute, Eiling was. In another life. And the Queen Bee herself. And a polymath assassin named Prometheus. And Luthor. Always Luthor.
She smiles a wicked smile. She remembers how it felt.
Not so long ago.
Oh how they burned like a sun. Like a whole screaming universe.
She loved it.
She still does.
She turns and enters the office. This Oval Office.
These Americans and their totems. She holds back a sneer.
The door shuts behind her.
The office is dark. The only light is the afternoon gloom—late November, barest of blue daylight seeping in through pulled curtains. She looks at the desk.
He is there, facing away, towards the windows and the gloom. She comes before the bare desk.
The chair turns. He looks at her.
And she looks right back.
"The League of Assassins is in my country. Emboldened by Kahndaq. I want to know what you're going to do about it."
He waits. In the impenetrable moment that follows, she breathes. And it's almost a sigh, a weary exhalation. She sits on the arm of the Davenport, arms folded just so on her lap. And waits for his response.
"We were supposed to discuss foreign policy. Peace in the Middle East. President Carter's dream, was it not?"
"His most foolish endeavor."
"He was driven," Luthor says.
"He was weak," she says. "I expect you to do better. Mister President."
"Perhaps. Not to put too fine a point on it," he says. "I think Adam and the others know a strong hand when they see one."
"Yours?"
"Yes."
She chuckles. Rolls her eyes.
"Don't you remember?" He leans forward. Stares right at her.
"I remember our misadventures," she says. "If you could call them that."
"My methods have changed somewhat."
"Only just," she says. "Still a prideful boy pretending he's anything other than Metropolitan street trash."
He leans back in the chair and smiles. He pulls a Lucky Strike and a lighter from one pocket and lights it. The smoke billows from his mouth and his nose and he says, "I enjoy you, Beatriz."
"You still want to kill them. To kill him."
He tamps the cigarette onto the bare desk before him. He says, "Yes."
She looks up at him and they share a moment. She gets this concerned look on her face. Dedication, perhaps. The muscles of her jaw clench and her eyes narrow, the eyebrows angle into sharp checkmarks on her forehead. Even under the hat he sees the intentionality of her.
"I can help you," she says.
He ashes the cigarette once more. Looks at it and her. He says, "No."
She straightens up. Still on the Davenport's arm. "I'm sorry."
"You come into my house," he says. "Ask for my help. Insult me. And then expect I'll help you with your pest problem."
"Ra's is beyond pestilence," she says. "He wants overthrow. He has some retrograde view of the world. The way things should be."
"You sound surprised, Beatriz. He's always been like that."
"He threatens me! You insult me! What am I to do if not defend myself."
Luthor makes a face. "Talk to him. Much as we're doing now. See what happens. Eventually everyone sees the light."
She looks at him. Her mouth thins into a sneer.
He drums his fingers on the desk, a quick beat of four, and shifts, leaning forward and staring right at her. The cigarette in his hand has burned down to a dead stub between his fingers. He says, "Let me tell you something, you miserable woman. I've known Ra's al Ghul since I was young. There is a small group of us that assist in the orderly progression of the world. He and I have had this understanding for years. Black Adam and I have had this understanding since my metahuman research division discovered him in eighty-eight. And now you say Ra's is in your country, using it as a proving ground for his poor, benighted vision of balance. I don't care. My government doesn't care. And I won't help you. I'll let him burn Bialya to the ground just to see it go. You have no power, and nothing to threaten me with. But you made a good showing. And you have my respect for that."
She stands. "You asked me here just to deny me entrance to your little cabal."
"I asked you here as an exercise in humiliation," he says. He flips his PowerBook open. Glances at it and back up at her. Flips it around to the GCN homepage. And the headline thereon—
"Because it looks like your Republican Guard is about to lose to a bunch of dissidents at the border."
She looks him and her eyes are wide. Her skin has flushed. She freezes there before the Most Powerful Man in the World.
"Run home, little worker bee. And don't ever contact me again."
She flees. The door opens and she is gone.
And Luthor remains. Watching the door. Mercy appears there and, not a word between them, she pulls it shut and stays out. Luthor pulls his mobile phone from his pocket.
Dials.
Ring.
Ring.
"Talk."
He doesn't know the voice. He says: "Give me Ra's or I'll drop an atomic bomb on you. Now."
Silence.
Ahead of Luthor, above the fireplace, is the Gilbert Stuart portrait of Washington. He stares at it. And does it stare back. Of course the implication is there—the splendid source of all this staring down at Luthor. In judgment. Luthor remembers his own words to Superman. A lifetime ago:
See anything familiar?
I see an old man's sick joke.
And you General Washington?
Luthor's eyes narrow. They stay on Washington. The phone line hisses.
"Alexander."
"It's been a long time since someone called me that."
"It is your truest self."
"I beg to differ. Her Majesty has just left my office.
"She will be well taken care of."
"Good."
"There is more you must know," the Demon said. "I do not make light of this work, Alexander. Bialya is my proving ground. Tomorrow, as ever, the world remains."
Luthor smiles. "I'm aware, as you know most people are, of what you did with the Ebola virus in Gotham. I'm aware of Talia, and your Santa Priscan enforcer, and the test-tube baby you've got hidden away in the desert. And if you think dealing with me is like dealing with Batman, you're sorely mistaken. I don't measure lives, Ra's. I take them."
"Then we understand each other. Farewell, Alexander."
The line goes dead. Luthor puts his phone back in his pocket. Leans back in the chair and breathes out, one long, slow draw. He stares at Washington there on the wall.
And Washington stares right back.
An hour later, the Queen Bee is in the air on the Wayne Enterprises Air Glide 3—a private jet with just enough legal distinctions from the LexCorp Gulf Stream 5 to avoid suspicion.
Five minutes after clearing American airspace, the plane explodes.
The fire rips through the cabin and in her last moments the Queen Bee swears. And screams.
And remembers their adventures. If you could call them that.
Oh the way they burned. Like a whole screaming universe.
She will always love it.
And she will always miss it.
Continued…