Steampunk Part XIII

[icarus_chained]

I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I know it's too soon after the last chapter, but it was so clear, so vivid in my head ... I had to write it! Forgive me?

This is it, you see. The second-to-last chapter, and the climax. This is the final battle. And I wonder how many of you would believe if I told you that, writing it, I was crying for Luthor?

Anyway! I give you:

Title: The Wind At Midnight
Rating: PG-13 overall, I think.
Characters/Pairings: Bruce/Clark. Bruce, Clark, Alfred, Lucius, Dick, Luthor, Lois, Arthur, Mercy, Barbara, Tim ... basically everyone this chapter.
Summary: Almost a quarter of a century ago, the cities of Earth were torn from the earth by some mystic upheaval and set flying, before threatening to fall back. To prevent the incredible loss of life if they fell, structures known as Ramparts were rapidly constructed, containing the material apparently most susceptible to the new mystical gravities of earth: silver. A new world order was built, as the deserts created on the surface during the Upheaval denied cultivation, based on Cities and flightpaths and park-grown food, a world in tentative political and physical balance. And now that balance is threatened.
Chapter summary: One extraordinarily pissed off Sea King, and Luthor's swansong.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Conceit inspired by James Blish's 'Cities in Flight'. Rest is mine.
 

The Wind At Midnight

Part XIII

 

 

There was a ringing in Clark's ears as he watched the Glass, as he saw the battlecruiser convulse as it had before, as he sensed death once again readying for flight. His world narrowed unbearably, soundless and stretched, all his focus on the flaring ports along that silver, beautiful length. Luthor smiled, mad and triumphant, and then ...

A roar of sound unlike anything he'd ever heard, a sound so great and all-encompassing it was nearly a silence, boomed out across the skies. The Glass flared with white light, pure and intense, and every alarm the Bridge had seemed to blare into life all at once, pointlessly, as the sound swallowed their paltry screams into its massive self. Blinded, dazed, Clark found himself crouching instinctively, his hands raised and fluttering at his head, trying to decide whether his eyes or his ears needed shielding more. But before he could decide, it was gone again.

It took a second for him to realise it. A second for him to realise that the ringing in his head was aftershock, not the sound itself. A second for the remembered cacophony to fade, and his senses to reconnect to the world around him.

The first thing he heard were the alarms, and several people cursing inventively in several languages, as the Bridge crew pulled themselves together and started running checks. And then, in front of him, the unmistakable sound of Bruce's voice.

"What the hell was that!?!" the Nightlord demanded, vaulting from his crouch into the center of the Bridge, standing beside his Commander as he stared out at the image that returned in stops and starts to the Glass. Clark staggered to his feet to follow him, shaking his head to try and disperse the fog. He'd always been somewhat more susceptible to noise than his fellows. But to be fair, he'd never before had to deal with something like that.

"It wasn't Luthor, whatever it was," one of the lensemen muttered. "He hasn't moved."

"It came from the south," someone else cut in. "Seared right across our path, between us and Luthor. Some kind of focused beam ...? Like a ship's cannon, but big." Really, really big, Clark thought, and could see it echoed around the room. Whatever it had been ...

"Hah!" the young Commander at Bruce's side suddenly exclaimed, thumping his fist on his hip in seeming delight. Everyone on the bridge turned to face him, his Lord first of all, and the young man turned to Bruce with a grin so wide it threatened to divide his face in two. Bruce stared at him, Clark not far behind.

"Dick?" Bruce said, slowly and cautiously. "Am I to take it you know what that was?"

His commander grinned. "That," he said, the repressed triumph clear as a bell in his voice, "was what happens when you piss off the King of the Seas!" And on the heels of that announcement, as if cued by it, the image on the Glass focused to show the stern, unyielding features of one Arthur Curry, King of Atlantis. Some quick lenseman focused one of the lesser LongGlasses to the south, to the Atlantis Tower where she reared crackling above the sea, a great Glass at her summit still bristling with leftover force. Clark stared in trepidation, and not a little awe.

"Luthor!" Arthur boomed, not bothering at all with such niceties as identifying himself. With that much power apparently at his disposal, Clark figured maybe he was justified. "That would not be wise!" He didn't really need to add the 'or else', and the Sea King was not a man to waste words.

On the Gotham Bridge, while they waited for Luthor to get his equipment in order enough to reply, Bruce turned to Dick long enough to give him a wondering look, answered by a head tipped sideways in a grinning salute, and faced back for the terminal to Lucius and Barbara. Clark stayed in place, the habits of a Bridge officer coming back to him, but his eyes followed Bruce instead of the Glass.

"Barbara," the Nightlord began, brusquely. "Is Tim onboard?"

"Five minutes ago, Bruce," the Spider's voice came back, crackling as it came through the radioGlass. "Why?" But the Nightlord ignored the question, turning instead to his Enginelord.

"Lucius, are we too damaged to seal up? Can we raise the dome?" He fired the questions rapidly, urgency in his voice, and Clark could feel all the attention in the room gravitating to a Lord many of them hadn't even realised was there until he'd spoken minutes before. Bruce's shoulders were taut, with none of the relief Arthur's entrance had engendered in his fellows, and Clark frowned in concern. He trusted Bruce's instincts enough for that to really worry him, and the rapid mutters that rushed around the room in the wake of those questions didn't help.

"The Dome? But in sunlight ... won't that ..."

"No, and yes," Lucius replied, unperturbed. "I've already sealed the lower vents against the sea, and the secondary doors in the higher reaches remain undamaged. The Dome might be a small problem, because one of the Eastern pistons is damaged, but give me two minutes and I can raise her. Now. Do you want to tell us all why?"

Bruce turned back to face the Bridge, his bearing stiff and trembling with leashed energy, his eyes catching and meeting the gaze of every officer in the room. Last of all were Dick, and Clark, and if it seemed that he lingered longer there ... perhaps Clark only imagined it from the intensity of his stare. Then Bruce lifted his chin proudly, determined and ready, and addressed them.

"Luthor is not going to stand down," he said, quietly. "No matter the threat. Even if he dies for it. What I've seen of him ... wouldn't you agree, Commander mine?" He turned slightly to Clark, and the eyes of his people followed him. Clark swallowed, and thought. He thought of Luthor. Of the madness in his eyes. Of how ardent his voice had been when he told Mercy of how much he wanted Gotham. Of the sad determination he had seen on the way to that first meeting with Bruce. He remembered thinking it, so long ago, that Luthor did not lack for determination, a determination he had hesitated to call courage at the time. Now ... was madness the same as courage?

"No," he answered, softly, as he understood what Bruce meant. "He will not back down." And he flinched inside as the faces ringing the room fell, as the hope of reprieve they had clutched so briefly fell away. But Bruce was not dismayed.

"So!" he commanded, his voice ringing as he recaptured their attention, their faith. "We cannot depend on Arthur stopping him. The beam is impressive. But it is a single beam. If even a few of those missiles get through ... I doubt Gotham could survive a second barrage. We're not clear yet. But!" And he smiled, rich and vicious. "We will be. I promise you. The Sea King has bought us time. Lets show them how we intend to use it! All hands!"

They leapt to attention, every last one of them. Every man and woman on the Bridge, everyone who called Gotham their home, everyone willing to fight for her. And Clark ... his hand clenched itself into a fist, his arm coming up to press it to his left shoulder as he bowed, a Commander to his Lord, a servant to his City. Gotham was not his home. But he stood on her Bridge, with her Lord as his Lord. He would serve them as he could.

And then there was a hand on his fist where he held it in the bow, a hand that shook, and he looked up in startlement to find himself staring into Bruce's full, shining eyes. He straightened, surprised, as Bruce seemed to hold his hand like a lifeline, as pain and pride seemed to fight in equal measure in his expression. Clark frowned, uncaring of the audience, and reached up to touch his Lord's face, gently. Bruce flinched, a little. And as he opened his mouth to ask what was the matter, to ask what hurt Bruce, the Glass behind them crackled once again into life, and Lois' voice cut across his own. He flinched instinctively, his hand tightening in Bruce's, and the Nightlord's eyes were so sad as they looked at him ...

"This is Lord Lois, of Metropolis," she called out. "Seeking permission from the Sea King for all Metropolite fighters who no longer wish to involve themselves in this illegal conflict to be allowed to retreat to Metropolis herself." Clark half turned, to look at her face in its corner of the Glass, to see the fierce determination that lived there, to save as many of her people as she could. Such a true Lord, his Lois. And Arthur, as he watched her, seemed to see it too, seemed to know that here was a Lord he could respect ... but before he could grant permission, Luthor managed to get his communications array back online, and his voice cried out across the ether in bitter anger.

"Yes indeed!" he spat. "Any Metropolite who wishes to join forces with the traitors who would put their City at the mercy of these ... these people, these beggar-lords, by all means move now!"

The boats surrounding Luthor's battlecruiser milled for a long moment, while the eyes of every participant in this farcical war watched them with baited breath. Clark found his hand clenched tight inside Bruce's, watching the fliers, wondering how many he had trained, how many he had known ... and when the first of them, a proud ship at Luthor's left flank, turned her face to the Shining City, turned away from the carnage he offered ... he could feel the cheer inside him, the pride that rose irrepressibly to the surface. He turned to look at the Nightlord, to share the joy, the pride, but all that was in Bruce's eyes was a kind of bitter happiness. Clark turned fully to him, let the drama play out behind him unwatched, and raised his hand to touch that stern face once again.

"My Lord?" he asked, quietly. "Bruce?"

Bruce smiled sadly, and pressed a kiss to Clark's hand as it passed. "It's time, Commander mine," he answered, soft and sad. "You need to go, now."

Clark blinked, frowned at him. "Go where?" he asked, but suddenly, as if he couldn't bear it, Bruce turned away. Pulled his hand free of Clark's, clapping his own together sharply to draw the attention of his crew. Behind them, Luthor roared after his ships as they abandoned him, one by one.

"Lucius!" the Nightlord snapped briskly. "Seal her up, and start raising the Dome!" He turned in place, towards the radarbanks. "Navigation, plot us straight for the ceiling, as close as you can to the vertical. Barbara! Contact Tim and tell him to get his people battened down, and send out the launch alert on the City system. Tell all civilians to prepare for crisis lift. Alfred, the same for Wayne Tower. Dick, think you can give this King of yours a cryptic enough warning?"

The younger Commander nodded in bemusement, a silence holding throughout the Bridge as people stood frozen, watching their Lord, wondering what he was doing, why his voice seemed to break around his orders ... Bruce had no patience for it. He thumped his thigh angrily, glaring at them as the urgency vibrated through him. "Move, people! Ready for launch! Move, move, move!" And they did, leaping to attention. Then, and only then, did Bruce turn back to Clark.

"Time to fly, Commander Kent," he said, brisk and unconcerned, except for the eyes that shone wetly. Not Clark, or Commander mine. Commander Kent. "As fast as you can fly. You've two minutes to clear the Dome, because I've no wish to explain to Lord Lois why I've kidnapped you!"

And, that quickly, Clark understood. Understood the goodbye, understood the pain. Launch. The stars our home, Commander mine. I don't want to explain why I've kidnapped you. Oh, Bruce ...

"So," Luthor said, an inexpressible sadness in his smooth voice, and Clark couldn't help but turn back to the Glass, to Luthor's battleship as she drifted alone through the skies between her three enemies, her fleet fleeing ship by ship to the safety of their City under the grim gaze of the Sea King. Luthor was watching them too, watching as he was abandoned, and the hatred that glittered in his eyes was terrifying in its chill concentration. "I am betrayed, am I?"

Bruce gripped Clark's shoulder tightly, his fingers digging into the skin, and his voice was harsh and urgent as he spoke. "Move now, Commander. He's going to strike! Move now, before it's too late. Two minutes, Clark! Please, please, as you love me! Move now!"

"I would have fought for you," Luthor went on, sad and quiet. "All of you. You don't understand, don't see. You are slaves to your fears, to the fear of the power these people, these creatures hold. The Sea King. The Nightlord. Hellspawn, both of them."

"Move, Clark," Bruce whispered, agonised, and there was a great groan through Gotham as the great engines out at the Ramparts shuddered into life, as the edge of the oxygen Dome cleared the lip of its housing.

"The Upheaval showed us what creatures such as these could do." Luthor was inexorable, all the pain, the uncertainty of that cataclysmic event in his voice. "A judgement on mankind, a power from beyond that judged us by criteria we didn't understand! But no more!" His voice rose, the madness, the passion cresting in it as his eyes shone with insane light. And Clark recognised it, saw it for what it was. No simple madness. It was the madness of conviction, a passion of belief. "You saw! You saw what I did, what a man can do! How a man can challenge the gods themselves, no matter how powerful, how just they think they are. You saw! And yet you choose in fear to ignore it?"

"Clark!" Bruce was desperate now, the Dome beyond the Glass raised halfway across the City, and Clark couldn't bear it, couldn't stand the pain in that proud voice, those piercing eyes. He turned, catching the man's hands in his own, pulling him as close as he could, as near to him as breathing. Bruce stopped, stunned, his eyes wide as he struggled instinctively in Clark's grasp, but Clark had no intention of releasing him, of ever letting go of this powerful, passionate man. He leaned in, into Bruce's confused face, into his open mouth ... he could taste his Lord's fear in the kiss, taste the love and desperation of him, the desire to protect Clark. He felt it all, and smiled softly.

"No," he whispered, so quietly, as he pulled back. "No, Bruce, my Lord. I'm here, and I'm staying."

"You bow before these Lords, and all their secrets? You choose to obey out of fear, and ignore everything you yourselves are capable of, everything a man can do! But not I! No, oh no. I will not bow before them."

"You must, Commander mine. Clark!" Bruce was still so close, so near, and the pain in his eyes was not lessened by Clark's promise. If anything, it increased.

Luthor stood, his head tossed back in defiant pride as he stared out at them through the Glass, his eyes glowing as his speech reached its impassioned zenith, and a dull thud echoed through Gotham as the Dome settled home above them, flashing as the lightpanels flared into life within it. A hum coursed through the bridge as instruments registered the flow of power flooding down through it into the Engines, raw sunlight through a system that had been designed to take the hollow light of stars. Gotham shuddered around them, her underspire jerking half-clear of the surf as the power, channeled through the remaining vents open on her lower side, juddered her vertical. Bruce stared at Clark, at his Commander, and everyone on the Bridge stared at the pair of them.

"If I must die for daring to challenge these people you fear so much," Luthor said, softly, fiercely. "Then so be it! But I will show you mercy. I will give you the secrets they would keep from you, give you the power the Nightlord wants to hoard for himself. And when you have seen it, when you understand what your fear might have cost you, remember me! Remember the Lord who served you to the last. Remember!"

The ports flared along his battlecruiser once more, the weapons held within them ready for their master's call. The Bridge crew turned to Bruce, waiting for the order, needing his word to fly, and Clark stared into his anguished eyes, held his hands close in a gentle grip.

"You haven't time to argue, my Lord," he prompted, gently, and Bruce turned from him with a shudder, ripped his hands clear of Clark's grip, and faced his crew, his people. And though his features were still heavy with pain, his voice was clear and powerful as a clarion call.

"Launch!"

And Gotham roared, screamed as a pulse of raw power poured down from her Engines, pushed inexorably at the sand and sea beneath her, pushed furiously at all that sought to hold her down, a fierce cry of challenge and triumph.

"Fire!" Luthor roared, behind them, panic and fury in his voice as he saw them lift, as he saw his quarry about to escape. His ship convulsed, obedient to his command, striving to destroy what had so offended her master. The cloud of death screamed free of her embrace, her deadly children spiralling out into the skies to rush headlong for the City that rose with impossible slowness from the Earth. Clark staggered as a force unlike anything he had ever felt pushed down on him, flattened him to his knees, his eyes streaming as he watched in horrified anticipation as the missiles approached ...

"Lucius!" Bruce shouted behind him, through Gotham's angry booming. "Sails! Sails!" A sharp clank tore through the City, as the great ribs of the vast solar sails to either side of her raised themselves, barely fifteen feet, but power flashed through Gotham in response, speed building and the terrible force with it. The City pulled free of the last grip of the earth, tearing free with a force that almost shook her from the skies, and Clark curled into a ball on the floor of the Bridge, watching the Glass through streaming eyes as they shot skyward, as the sea and Luthor began to sink beneath them, the missiles suddenly seeming to aim too low, far too low ...

There was a roar of fury, of harsh desperation as Luthor watched them fly, as he saw everything he had fought for slip irretrievably from his grasp. There was such loss in his eyes, at that moment, as if all the dreams of mankind had been ripped from him. Such pain, as the realisation of defeat crashed down on him, everything he had done now for nothing. And then, an echo, pure fury, as the Sea King's terrible justice broke through the last frayed shred of restraint, and the great beam lanced through the skies towards its prey. It struck Luthor's battlecruiser broadside, her outline seeming to glow with dark light against the glare, and Luthor's image broke into static on the Glass.

They watched, in hollow awe, as the light died, and the great and terrible beauty that had carried her master to his end began to sink, gracelessly, into the sea. Her side was near melted, the silver dripping from her tortured flanks as she fell, a brittle scream ripped from her as she broke in two. She hit the water, a great plume of spray and steam thrown up from her impact, and as Gotham soared for the stars, flying fierce and triumphant through the skies above her shattered form, the great battleship sank at last out of sight, beneath the waves of the unforgiving sea.

Luthor ... was gone.

For a moment, as the terrible force that pushed at him began to lessen, all Clark could do was stare at the Glass, stare at the image of the broken ship until they moved out of range, until the Glass went dark, and flowered again showing only the earth, receding beneath him. As he had never seen it before. And for some reason, all he felt was an indescribable agony, a black well of grief that bubbled up through him for no reason at all. He saw Luthor's eyes, saw again the pain and loss in them, and watched his planet, the only one he had ever know, fall away beneath him, like a broken ship.

He stood, staggering to his feet, noting dully that the others were standing too around him, but it was the earth that held his gaze, and the memory of a man he had once served with all the joy in his heart. He had not been wrong, he thought distantly. Luthor hadn't been wrong. His aims, his pain, his goals ... he had wanted to serve his City, his people. His only flaw ... the madness, that drove him to forget who it was for, to see the goal and not the people that made it worthwhile. Not so alien a crime, perhaps. So human ...

And then, through the pain, through the grief, he raised his hand to his forehead. The old salute, one comrade to another. A soldier to his Lord. The tears slid silently down his cheeks, unbidden, unnoticed, as he paid his last respects to the man who had shaped so much of his life.

He felt movement at his side, caught sight of Bruce's face in the corner of his eye. The sadness there, the strange pity. The love. He knew he was being watched, knew what the others would be seeing. A man in a Metropolis uniform, saluting his fallen Lord. Their enemy, who had so nearly destroyed them. But he couldn't stop, couldn't lower his hand, not yet ... It was his right, to grieve. His heart, to mourn a man who had wounded him, who in the end had hated him, perhaps. But it was not Luthor's feelings that mattered, but his own. He looked at Bruce, his eyes trying to apologise, to explain, his hand shaking slightly as he held it determinedly to his brow.

His Lord looked back at him, his eyes so fierce, so clear, and then ... Bruce raised a hand, slowly, deliberately, and placed it to his own temple, echoing Clark's salute. A valediction, for his fallen enemy. And a gesture, to honour the grieving of the man he loved. As you mourn, so shall I, Commander mine. And somehow, through all his tears, Clark found strength to smile.

"My Lord," he whispered, a goodbye and a greeting, a releasing of the past to seize hold of the future. "My Lord."

"Welcome home, Commander mine," Bruce whispered, softly, and caught Clark's hand as he lowered it out of the salute. He pulled it close, held it tight, and reached out to take Clark's shoulder with the other, to curl it around Clark's neck as he stepped into the embrace, as he dipped his head to Bruce's shoulder and wept.

They held each other, there in the silence, as the sun rose over the City of the Night as just another star.


Part XIV & Epilogue: http://icarus-chained.livejournal.com/47548.html#cutid1