"Okay, so I was stupid with the money," Tommy Noonan regretfully admitted to himself, lightly slapping the side of his head. Two days had passed and he was now looking in the window of a second-hand store. Inside was a guitar and mini-amp that not long ago had cost $500. Now, though, a new sign read:
| SPECIAL OFFER $295 |
If only he'd come here first!
He shook his head and cursed under his breath as he felt the few bills left in his pocket. He didn't need to count them. Less than ten dollars. It wasn't even enough to let him make a down payment.
By this time the victim he'd stolen from was just a vague memory, a guy who "got what he deserved" because he should have paid Tommy for saving him. First thing he'd done in the morning was ride the subway a dozen blocks away from his home. He got out, dumped the empty wallet in a trash can, and took the next train downtown. He bought sneakers, he bought jeans, he even bought a pair of shades. Tommy didn't let himself think about it --- he just pulled the money out and spent it.
He liked the looks on the girls' faces when he'd breezed into the video arcade and bought sodas for everyone. Tommy liked to be liked. It made him feel he was somebody, that he was worth something. So he bought everybody potato chips, too. And then somehow he was paying for ice creams and candy. With a start, he realized he had to leave while he still had some cash left. Without a word to anyone, he slipped out the door.
"No guts," that's what his dad used to tell him. "How do you expect to earn respect?"
Ha, Tommy thought now, what does he know? I spent three hundred fifty dollars in a couple of days! How's that for guts? Think those people in the arcade don't respect me?
But how would he ever get that kind of money again? Things like that just didn't happen twice in anybody's lifetime. He needed a way to make money... lots of money. And he had to get it easily. Maybe his dad was right --- maybe he did need guts.
So what if he became a thief? The idea scared him, but at the same time it attracted him.
Idly, his eyes drifted to the window display in the travel agency next door. Advertising their special "Africa Promotion," a huge color poster depicted a snarling lion crouched on a rock, about to pounce as a herd of frightened zebras raced by beneath him. The lion's fangs were bared, huge and drooling as it stalked its next meal.
Tommy turned away and watched a sleek silver limo with smoke-gray windows pull smoothly out into the traffic and accelerate effortlessly up the avenue. Guys like that never have trouble, he thought bitterly. The get all the girls, all the cars, all the money they want.
But how could he get that? How could plain old Tommy Noonan ever connect with the serious money in this jungle of a world?
And suddenly it struck him, like a vision. The world was a jungle, and the people were animals. And most people were like the zebras in the poster --- prey waiting to be stalked. Only a few ever became a lion, the stalker and hunter who gets the reward. The millionaires and the politicians and the gang bosses --- that's what they do. Just like the lions, they find a segment of the population and prey on them.
That's what I'm gonna do, Tommy decided suddenly, as if the decision had been made for him by somebody else. I'll find my target, and I'll jump on it. I will be the enemy of the people of Gotham.
"The first thing you must understand," Sean Romaine said, "is that the most advanced computer in the world is a total idiot."
The WayneTech Company was housed in a large gothic building whose exterior gargoyles of medieval design protected an interior of gleaming futurism. Site of some of the most advanced computer equipment on the planet, WayneTech was an ideal place to learn on the job, and an internship here was every computer student's dream.
Located just beyond the heart of the city, the building was located some twenty minutes away from Wayne Manor by motorcycle, always Barbara Wilson's vehicle of choice ever since she'd first taken to them after her parents' death in an automobile accident. Taken to them so much that she'd been expelled from Oxbridge Academy for illicit motorcycle racing, prompting her to come across the Atlantic in the first place.
"And yet the power of that computer," Romaine continued, "is incredible, making its creators seem even lower than idiots as it performs enough calculations per second to daunt a thousand human brains. That is the paradox which WayneTech's Compu-Link program seeks to address."
"Now, my fine young sub-idiots," Romaine intoned with a smile, "how do we turn the moron which is smarter than us into a genius?"
Arriving early, Barbara had spent some time getting to know the three fellow interns who were also here for their first day on the job. And now, in one of the main labs, the four of them were listening to a welcoming speech by their new boss, the head of WayneTech's Compu-Link program.
"No one wishes to hazard a guess?" Romaine coaxed. "The computer is a brilliant idiot that can run rings around us in many ways. How do we make it even smarter?"
Barbara looked at the other three interns, all male --- one of them even had the audacity to ask her out to dinner even before they'd started work. Now they seemed clueless, so she decided to speak up: "By using the human brain's one advantage over computers?"
"Which is?" Romaine encouraged.
"The ability to reason? To weigh choices and make decisions?"
"Very good, Ms. Wilson," Romaine said. "We must teach the computer to think as well as calculate. Right now, computers do one thing very well and that is what makes them brilliant. The fact that they can't do much else is what makes them dumb. The limited human brain, on the other hand, is far more versatile. Even though it cannot hope to compete on the computer's specialized level, it can do many things well, and that is what makes it superior. The human mind, after all, created the computer --- but I can't imagine a computer creating Albert Einstein."
Barbara was fascinated. The other interns looked at her as she spoke again. "Then the Compu-Link program's goal is to design a computer that functions like the human brain?"
Sean Romaine was visibly pleased. "Precisely, Ms. Wilson," he said. "And the key is literally within our own heads. We talk of making computers more 'user-friendly,' but that is possible only if the users are actual friends. And I don't know about you, but I find it extremely difficult to becomes friends with a cold, dumb machine."
"Sometimes," one of the interns cracked, "I want to punch my laptop."
"Or pitch the thing right out a window," another agreed.
"Exactly," Romaine responded. "So we must establish common ground in the interface between humans and machine. The gulf between us must be bridged. And since no human wants to become more like a machine, we must force the machine to become more like a human."
"Mr. Romaine," Barbara said, "can you tell us how WayneTech is approaching this problem?"
"Pretty much by groping in the dark, Ms. Wilson. Since the workings of the human mind remain largely a mystery, we really don't know how to approach it. But we are trying two things. First is brute force." Romaine swept a hand around the lab, indicating the awesome array of mainframe computers, all state of the art. "And second is primitive mimicry of the one human brain process we do understand..."
"Parallel linkage of all these mainframes?" Barbara asked.
Romaine looked at her. "Now I am impressed, Ms. Wilson. Your deduction is quite correct. Normal computer processing functions in serial fashion --- in a line, as it were, to perform calculations from one step to the next. Some of us think this is clumsy and laborious. So we want to devote all the enormous poser of each mainframe to a separate, specialized task. Then we hope to force them all to work together at the same time --- in tandem --- to create a synergy, a whole that is greater than the sum of its individual parts."
"Almost a hive mind," one of the other interns said, "which amounts to a single human intelligence?"
"Indeed," Romaine replied, but without the human mind's capacity for independence. We want decision-making, but not to the point of disobedience. Whatever we do, we must ensure that these computers remain machines, enslaved to a master controller --- to the human operator's commands. After all, we don't want mentally superior entities suddenly deciding we're too dumb to run the world."
"Even if it's true?" asked one of the interns.
"Especially since it's true," Barbara said, and they all laughed, including Sean Romaine.
"You'll learn more details as we go along," he said. "Now let's tame and train some brains, shall we?"
"Are you talking about the computers," Barbara asked, or our brains?"
"Both." Romaine smiled. "Although I'm not sure which will prove more difficult."
"Tommy Noonan, what on earth are you doing in that bedroom? Come and watch TV with your dad and me!"
"Leave me alone, Mom," Tommy snapped. "I'm... studying!"
His mother rattled the doorknob, but he'd been able to lock his door ever since he was sixteen, and it was locked now. Good thing, too, Tommy thought, looking down at his handiwork. He'd removed the studs and labels from his black leather jacket. His new sneakers were dyed with black polish. His black jeans were skintight. And he'd spent the last of his money on a thirty-foot lightweight rope with a metal grapple on the end.
He'd used a sheet of soft black leather to make a mask, carefully cutting out twin eyeholes. Quickly, he dressed in his new outfit and pulled the mask over his head, securing it with the drawstring he'd inserted. He glanced in the mirror that stood on his dressing table, and started back, momentarily shocked by his own reflection. Then he laughed to himself. If it scares me, how's it going to make my victims feel? he thought with satisfaction.
Quietly, he slipped open the window. Below him, the backward was overgrown with weeds and piled high with junk, including the remains of a car somebody once had left in the street.
He clambered down the drainpipe and dropped into the yard, skirting the trash as he headed for the lane behind the houses. He'd played in that car shell for weeks when he was a kid.
But he wasn't a kid anymore, Tommy told himself impatiently. He was the Enemy. He was a predator. And he was going out into the night to hunt down his prey.
By the end of Barbara Wilson's first day, the other interns were calling her Teacher's Pet. It suited her just fine. Especially if it kept Steve from asking her out again.
And by the end of the first week, Barbara was on a first-name basis with her boss. Sean Romaine seemed to think the world of her, and spoke glowingly of her aptitude for computer work. "Barbara," he said, "you could have a real future with WayneTech, preferably right here with me. You already understand this program on an intuitive level, better than some of the techs who've been here for years."
Barbara beamed with pride. Batgirl seemed long ago and far away.
Meanwhile, even as Barbara Wilson was enjoying her success at WayneTech, Gotham suffered an all-out crime wave launched by the Black Mask Gang. Night after night, Batman and Robin would arrive at crime scenes just moments too late. And even when several of the crimes were foiled, resulting in the capture of more False Facers, the onslaught continued unabated. There were simply too many criminals, and no way for the two heroes to be everywhere at once.
"The Black Mask Gang has grown too large," Batman said sternly. "At this point, criminals are flooding into Gotham from other cities to join up. It's like fighting the many tentacles of the mythical Hydra."
"This Hydra," Robin said. "Anybody ever stop it?"
"Only by cutting off its head."
"And in our case, the head is..."
"Black Mask himself."
Robin sighed. "I knew you were going to say that."
But the Dark Knight was even more disturbed by the targets of certain crimes: special generators, advanced technology specs and blueprints, transmitting and receiving devices. They were unusual items to steal, and suggested a motive beyond mere greed or profit. "Black Mask is collecting things," he decided, "with a greater goal in mind. Something big."
"Bigger," Robin wanted to know, "than this full-scale mega-crime wave?"
"Yes," Batman replied with certainty. "A lot bigger."
The Enemy crouched on the roof of a low maintenance shed. His black costume blended into the shadows, making him invisible. He was taking long, slow breaths in an effort to calm himself, but his heart raced like a trip-hammer.
For three nights now he'd crouched here, watching the alley that ran along the back of a magazine and newspaper kiosk. Each night, the middle-aged woman who ran the booth bagged her money and took it to the bank's night depository. It was a five-minute walk --- but she shaved it in half by cutting through the alley.
"You make a plan, you have to stick to it," Tommy was repeating to himself. Because as the minutes dragged by, and the time drew nearer for the woman to close up, it almost seemed as if his legs were turning to lead weights. "You're the Enemy," he reminded himself. "People must fear you."
He thought of the money she'd be carrying, and that made him feel a bit better. Five hundred bucks or more, he figured. And she got that much every day; she wouldn't miss one day's takings. Besides, she was probably insured.
Tommy stiffened as he heard her approaching footsteps.
The inhabitants of Wayne Manor were in the dining room for a late dinner, finishing their soup. It was the second week of Barbara's internship at WayneTech, and her relations with Bruce and Dick were cordial but chilly. Bruce had not even mentioned Batgirl since that last night in the cave, and Dick hadn't said another word on the subject either, not since their disastrous talk in Barbara's room.
Alfred entered from the kitchen, carrying a large serving platter and wearing a look of understated woe. "The main course, Master Bruce," he said, "but I'm afraid it's just been spoiled by a certain signal in the sky."
Bruce Wayne was out of his chair like a shot, not even looking out the dining room windows as he headed straight for main hall and the grandfather clock. It was time for the Batman.
Dick Grayson also rose quickly, but paused to snatch a potato from Alfred's platter and look across the table at Barbara Wilson. "Still playing hard to get?" he asked. "Or do you want to join us again?"
"No, thanks," Barbara said. "I'm going back to WayneTech tonight. Sean asked me to put in some overtime on the Compu-Link program." Then she dabbed napkin to mouth, smiling sweetly but with her eyes hard and glittering. "And golly gee," she added, "looks like I'll get a second helping tonight."
Dick's face was sour as he waved a hand in dismissal, stuffed the potato into his mouth, and hustled after Bruce.
"Uncle Alfred," Barbara said, "let's eat."
The butler wearily shook his head and retreated to the kitchen.
Tap tap tap. Every footstep seemed to take an eternity. Then Tommy Noonan saw the woman's shadow on the wall... and suddenly, he became the Enemy. He felt calm, at ease, alert. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
He rose from his crouch, swinging the grapple around his head. He'd practiced countless times over the past few nights, and now it was almost second nature. There was a crash as it caught on the drainpipe opposite.
The woman from the kiosk hesitated at the noise, blinking into the shadows.
The Enemy swung down, breath hot and labored behind the leather mask, and landed directly in front of her. The woman opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She stood frozen to the spot with terror. Faced with this sinister masked figure, who could blame her? Tommy thought. He remembered how easily he'd spooked himself when he looked at his costume in the mirror for the first time.
The enemy grabbed the handles of the bag she held, and pulled it from her unresisting fingers. He had grabbed the end of the rope again and was hauling himself up it before she even realized what was happening. After he scrambled the last few feet onto the roof, the Enemy unhooked the grapple and sprinted off along a narrow ledge.
By the time she finally found her voice and screamed, it was too late. The Enemy was already disappearing into the rooftops.
"No emergency," Police Commissioner James Gordon said, "and nothing new to report." He was pacing in front of the rooftop beacon, shoulders hunched in his light trench coat, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
"I don't get it," Robin said. "Then why'd you slap the Bat-Signal on the sky?"
"I'm not really sure," Gordon answered. "Just antsy, I guess. As you say, Batman, Black Mask is building up to something big, and we still don't have a clue. The whole thing has been eating at me."
"Wish we were eating at something," Robin muttered, remembering the unfinished meal in the dining room at Wayne Manor. And, just maybe, the girl they'd left behind.
Batman shot him a look and then turned back to Gordon. "Go on, Commissioner."
"Well... we've had the first batch of False Facers in custody for two weeks now, and nothing's changed. They're still acting like zombies. Won't give up so much as their names. They claim they can't even remember their names."
"Are they still being kept here at headquarters --- in holding cells?"
"Until their trial," Gordon said, "yes."
"And your evidence room is just down the hall?"
"Yes."
"And their masks are being stored in that evidence room?"
Gordon stopped pacing, wondering where Batman was getting at. "Except for the masks you took, yes."
"Then I don't think they're acting," Batman said. "I suspect they're telling the truth. They probably can't remember their own names."
Gordon thrust his chin out. "What are you getting at?"
"E.D.O.M., Commissioner. And R.H.I.C."
Robin snapped his head. He'd forgotten all about those two strange terms. Batman had been on the verge of explaining then when Barbara Wilson interrupted with her melodramatic resignation as Batgirl, killing all further discussion in the cave.
"You're talking about what?" Gordon said.
"Two very evil mind-control programs," Batman explained now, "practiced by various spy agencies." His eyes grew distant and he slowly made fists before continuing. "E.D.O.M. stands for electronic dissolution of memory, a process in which electromagnetic waves are used to literally erase a subject's personality. And R.H.I.C. stands for radio-hypnotic intracerebral control, in which other waves interfere with a subject's brainwave patterns --- and actually take control of brain functions."
Gordon was incredulous. "You mean the False Facers are nothing but remote-controlled robots? And the control waves are coming from those 'mystery chips' in the masks?"
Batman nodded.
"But if you're right," Gordon went on, "why haven't my officers been affected by the masks? Why haven't we been affected?"
"I'm not sure," Batman admitted, "but I suspect the E.D.O.M. waves are emitted only for a short period after the masks are first activated. That's probably what does all the damage. After that, the masks' chips may shift to a different maintenance frequency --- harmless to anyone who hasn't undergone the initial phase. Try moving the masks from the evidence room, out of range of the prisoners. They may come to their senses and start talking, but I wouldn't count on it. My guess is, their memories have been destroyed forever. Along with their ability to think."
Gordon gaped at him. "They're brain-dead?"
"Not in a medical sense," Batman replied, "but close enough."
Robin let out a long, low whistle. If Batman was right, then Black Mask really was dealing in big things.
Ten minutes later, the Enemy was plain Tommy Noonan again, locked in his bedroom with $618 and some change spread out on the table. He felt exhilarated, all the earlier nervousness channeled into a special high. So this is what living is all about!
Barbara Wilson liked Sean Romaine well enough, but she had to admit her boss could be slightly weird at times. He looked to be in his late twenties, as far as she could tell, yet he often acted a lot older. Maybe it was the strange air of intensity that could come over him without warning. And while he was good-looking on the surface --- tall, athletically built, dark hair and eyes, somewhat rough but handsome features --- there was something within him that sometimes caused a visible change, and not always for the better. Then there was that odd wandering of his eyes, as if he were searching for sights only he could see, and the way he would hunch over and get lost in vague mutterings. It had actually spooked Barbara on several occasions.
But even though the total effect could be unsettling, she was willing to chalk it up to nothing more than a series of quirks and eccentricities. Sean Romaine was, after all, the cyberspace equivalent of a mad scientist, wasn't he? And he was certainly a genius. Why else would Bruce Wayne pay him so much to head up the Compu-Link program? So a little weirdness came with the package --- no big deal.
Tonight, however, Barbara was really beginning to wonder about Sean. He was creeping her out way more than usual, whistling off-key, abruptly smacking the side of a mainframe or a disk pack, and laughing out loud, humming and singing strange tunes she had never heard, that probably no one had ever heard.
Maybe it was only because they were working after hours, alone in the huge WayneTech lab. Maybe Sean was just feeling loose. He was definitely feeling expansive. "You know, Barbara?" he suddenly said.
She looked up from her work, startled by the loudness of his voice.
"In one way, I really envy computers."
"Ah... what way is that, Sean?"
He clucked his tongue, not even looking at her. In fact, he had yet to look in her direction at all, instead staring fixedly at the array of mainframes. "Computers have no fears, of course!" He gestured toward them. "No worries or obsessions, Barbara, no distracting thoughts to get in the way of the task at hand. They have no emotions at all."
It should have been a joke, but he seemed so serious that Barbara didn't quite know how to respond. She decided to treat it lightly, if not with a laugh. "But Sean... haven't you just listed practically everything that makes us human?"
"Precisely, Barbara! And wouldn't it be wonderful to be free of it all? Nothing but clean, cool intellect? No messy feelings? Wouldn't that be wonderful, Barbara?"
"Not for me, Sean," she said, giving her head a little shake as she suppressed a shiver. "Not at all."
He finally whirled and stared right through her, his eyes huge. "But just think, Barbara! Think if we could reach the brain's slate and wipe it clean --- reprogram our minds from the neurons up!" He was working his hands wildly, trying to grab the concept out of the very air and shape it into something real.
Barbara was more than a little nervous now and tried to choose her words carefully. "But you've said it yourself, Sean. The brain is not a machine."
"But it could be," he snapped. "A miraculous machine of unlimited potential! And if enough of these miraculous machines were linked in parallel --- every brain in Gotham, for example, millions of brilliant drones all serving a single master controller --- think of what might be accomplished!" He lunged right at Barbara and pounded his fist down on her desk. "And with the right kind of radionics and delivery system, it could actually be done, Barbara! A signal of the proper frequency transmitted into every..."
Sean stopped short, as if just realizing the effect his words were having. "Sorry," he said, his voice now meek and quiet. "Sometimes I get carried away in my flights of fancy. Nothing but pipe dreams, of course." And then he tried to laugh the whole thing off.
Barbara tried to laugh along, but knew it sounded hollow. Feigning a headache, she excused herself early and quickly left the lab and the building.
Outside, kicking her motorcycle to life, she was still left with an uncomfortable feeling. She had just seen a mask slip, and the face underneath had frightened her to the bone.
She gunned the throttle, shifted gears, and shot out into the night as the first raindrops fell from the sky.
Soaked to the skin, Barbara Wilson almost whooped with delight when she saw the welcoming lights of the diner up ahead. She'd been aimlessly riding the streets of Gotham after finishing her day at WayneTech, mulling over what Sean Romaine had said, unwilling just yet to go back to Wayne Manor with all its reminders of her previous life as Batgirl. Right now, a cup of hot, black coffee was just the pick-me-up she needed.
JOE'S DINER, she read as she parked her motorcycle and crossed toward the diner. OPEN 24 HOURS. The building itself was low, long, and narrow, almost like a railway car. Surrounded by several much larger and newer buildings, the diner looked as if it had always been there, as if developers had just built around and over it.
The smells of coffee and hot waffles greeted Barbara as she pulled open the door. But behind their warmth was an atmosphere filled with tension and fear.
Barbara took in the scene at a glance. A young couple sat at a window booth, both obviously afraid and trying not to look at the counter area. A large fat man stood with his back to them. He was shaking a clenched fist at a gray-haired old man in a white apron who sat on a padded stool on the other side of the counter.
"Yer coffee's lousy," the fat man was saying, his words slightly slurred, as if he'd been drinking. "I ain't payin' fer it! And to teach you a lesson, I ain't payin' you fer the two rotten burgers I ate, either!"
The old man frowned. "I've never had a complaint about my food in forty years," he said. "If you're refusing to pay because you're drunk, okay --- I'll call the cops. But don't insult my cooking!"
"Call the cops?" The big guy almost exploded. He lashed out with a backhanded swipe, but so clumsily that he missed the cook completely and knocked a pot of coffee off the burner instead. Its scalding contents spilled all over the counter.
"Now look what you made me do," the fat man raged, reaching out to grab the old man. "I'm gonna ---"
He broke off abruptly as Barbara spoke from behind him. "That's enough." One hand grasped the bigger man's collar, the other held his arm in a viselike grip.
He started to raise his other arm. Maybe he'd intended to strike out at his assailant but then realized it was a female. He dropped his arm.
In one swift motion, Barbara turned him around to face the other way. Recoiling at the alcohol fumes on the fat man's breath, she started to propel him toward the exit.
Wedging the door open with her foot, Barbara shoved the man outside, into the rain. "When you sober up," she said in a stern voice that brooked no argument, "you might want to come back and apologize."
The man staggered a little, and Barbara watched for a moment as he reeled away along the street, muttering curses under his breath. Ironic, Barbara thought. Even without a costume, I end up being a heroine.
As Barbara turned to go back inside, the couple squeezed past her and hurried out, obviously glad to be saved from any further unpleasantness but determined not to stick around.
Barbara walked back to the counter, where the old man was mopping up the coffee. "Are you all right, Mr...?"
"Wagner," he said. "Joe Wagner, but everybody just calls me Joe. Always have, always will. Except skunks like that drunk. Insult my cooking? Hah!" He made a theatrical gesture, his indignation almost comical.
"He's gone now, and I don't think he'll be back," Barbara assured him, but the old man just raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
"I'm forgetting my manners," he told Barbara. Getting a cup and a saucer, he poured coffee from a second pot. "Thanks. Least I can do is give you a cup of coffee. Especially a sweet young thing like you." He gave her a wink that was more grandfatherly than lecherous. "Drunks, addicts, teenage thugs, gangsters --- everybody thinks they can take advantage of an old man!"
Barbara took a sip from her cup. "You should give up working nights," she suggested. "I bet your day manager doesn't have this kind of trouble."
"No, he doesn't. And that's why he won't work nights. Nobody wants this kind of trouble!"
The man paused, his head tilted a little to the side --- almost like a bird, Barbara thought.
"Say," Joe went on, "you're not looking for a job, are you?"
"We-ell..." Barbara's voice trailed away. She already had a job, at least for the rest of the summer. But once the WayneTech internship ended and school started in the fall... She knew that Bruce Wayne would provide whatever she needed, even another job somewhere within Wayne Enterprises, if that was what she wanted. But what way was that to start an independent life? And since she wasn't going to be prowling the night as Batgirl...
"Well..." she began again. "I already have a summer job. In computers. I wasn't thinking of working in a diner."
"A computer nerd, huh? Well, everybody has to start someplace," Joe told her. "Albert Einstein --- so I heard --- got the idea for relativity when he was working in an all-night diner!"
Barbara laughed, and Joe pressed home his advantage. "What do you say? I'll train you. Money's not great, but the food is. Besides, you could leave whenever you felt like it." Joe hoisted himself back up on the high seat behind the cash register and played his trump card. "And you'd be doing an old man a big favor."
Barbara shrugged. Okay, so this wasn't what she wanted out of life. But then again --- she didn't know what she did want. Maybe Joe's offer was an omen. Joe might like to gripe, but she could tell from the onset that here was a man who enjoyed his life. And anyway, she didn't have any better offer.
"Okay, you've got yourself a new trainee, sir," she told the delighted old man. "But I warn you --- it's only temporary. My other job has priority. I could leave at any moment."
"Spoken like a true bigshot wannabe," Joe said with a grin. "It's a deal. You work, sweet-talk the bad guys out, I cook and pay. No other commitments, right?"
They shook hands, and sealed the bargain with another cup of coffee.
Barbara Wilson arrived back at Wayne Manor to find the old butler waiting up for her. "Since Masters Bruce and Dick are, ah, still out," he said, "I thought we might have a talk, Barbara. I could even make some cocoa..."
Barbara wanted to beg off, to be alone while she thought through what had happened at the lab and then at the diner, but Alfred was clearly troubled and she just couldn't refuse the dear sweet man. "Sure, Uncle Alfred," she said, following him into the kitchen. "What do you want to talk about?"
"Actually," he said, "I'm rather concerned about Masters Bruce and Dick pushing themselves too hard. Why, like last night --- you saw --- they didn't even eat." He started warming milk for the cocoa. "It's this Black Mask business, and it's getting entirely out of hand." He seemed more than concerned, and almost angry.
Barbara opened a cabinet and took out two mugs. "How so?" she asked absently, still dwelling on Sean's strange behavior.
"Why, the crime wave, dear girl. Haven't you been following the news? Black Mask's gang has grown to the size of a small army. And did you know that each and every one of them is apparently a puppet?"
Barbara spooned cocoa into the mugs. "Did you say puppet, Uncle Alfred?"
"Indeed I did. Evidently, this so-called False Face Society of Gotham lacks all semblance of free will." Alfred poured steaming milk into the mugs. "Master Bruce feels they are much like 'drones in a hive mind,' all controlled by Black Mask --- obviously through those mysterious chips in their masks."
Barbara was abruptly chilled, suddenly alert, all thoughts of Joe and her new job at the diner forgotten.
"If only the Master knew who Black Mask is..."
"Tell me more," Barbara said. She knew Alfred was trying to coax her back into the cave. It wouldn't work, but no --- for her own reasons --- she did want to hear what he had to say. "Tell me everything."
And he did, almost lecturing about ELF waves and E.D.O.M. and R.H.I.C., about the strange nature and odd targets of certain crimes, and the fact that not a single False Facer could remembers so much as his own name.
Some of it Barbara was already aware of, but much of it was new to her. It was also disturbing, and all too familiar. Dark suspicions shot through her mind as she listened, and by the time Alfred started winding down, she was almost certain.
"So you see, dear, it's become quite a distressing problem. Masters Bruce and Dick could certainly use some assistance on this one, and I thought perhaps you might reconsider your decision to..."
"Excuse me, Alfred," Barbara said, getting to her feet, "but... ah... Sean said some things tonight that I need to go over in my room."
The butler seemed crestfallen, but recovered quickly and made a visible effort to brighten. "Then all is going well," he said, "with your work at WayneTech?"
"Uh, yeah," Barbara replied. "It's really... well, it's a terrific job." This was definitely not the time to bring up her new job at Joe's Diner. And so she left the kitchen, heading for the stairs to her room. "Thanks for the cocoa, Uncle Alfred. It was great."
The butler peeked into her mug. The girl hadn't tasted a drop.
Working overtime at WayneTech --- alone after hours with Sean Romaine --- was now at the very bottom of her list of favorite things to do. Among other things, it meant juggling her schedule with old Joe. But she had to know whether her suspicions were right.
Black Mask was using mystery computer chips to accomplish the opposite of Compu-Link's goals as defined by her boss. Instead of making machines function more like the human mind, as Sean Romaine was supposedly trying to do, Black Mask was turning humans into robotic machines. One aspect of both processes was eerily the same, however: the creation of "hive minds" that obeyed a single "master controller." In the case of Black Mask, that controller was evil. Was the same true of Sean Romaine? Was he somehow involved?
Barbara Wilson had to know.
And so, when Sean asked her to work both days that weekend, Barbara accepted. But her mind was hardly on the work. Instead, she secretly studied Sean himself, finding new and sinister meaning in each of his various "quirks" and "eccentricities." She also studied the clock, anxiously awaiting the fifteen-minute breaks he took every two hours.
And during each break, as soon as Sean left the lab, Barbara snooped around. Her pace was frantic, her heart pounding, as she went about her self-appointed mission. First she left the lab and slipped into the personnel office to read the file on Sean Romaine.
During the next break, on a hunch, she examined Compu-Link's recent requisition records, comparing them with current lab inventories. She even skimmed the papers in and on the man's desk, reading as much as she could, wishing she knew the passwords to his private computer files, imagining his early return at any and every moment. She always had an excuse prepared, ready and waiting to be delivered with perfect innocence of need be. Oh, hello, Sean. I didn't expect you back so quickly. Listen, I need those specs on the new mainframe hard-drives. Do you know where they might be?
But she was never caught, and she did not like what she had found. Nevertheless, she tried to be completely objective about each little shred of evidence, telling herself it could still be nothing but gigantic coincidences. Unlikely, yes, but innocent just the same.
The capper came during Sean's last break on Sunday. Rummaging through his bottom desk drawer, Barbara found a set of Compu-Link blueprints. They were different from the ones she worked with almost every day. They had, in fact, been deliberately altered. But why would Sean modify the circuitry like this, she wondered, unless he planned to add something? Maybe something like a mystery chip?
Barbara left WayneTech that day with her mind made up and not a single doubt blocking the way. She was certain she now had what she needed: a single answer to all the questions shaped in dawning dread.
Barbara Wilson returned to the manor and found Bruce Wayne studying in the library. It was late and he looked freshly showered, but she couldn't tell whether he'd just come home or was yet to go out. Where the Batman was concerned, one never knew. Dawn was the only curfew he obeyed.
Bruce acknowledged her presence without looking up. "Barbara." Just her name, halfway between question and statement, nothing else.
She started slowly. "The only way to stop Black Mask is by learning his identity."
"Not the only way," Bruce said, "but the best and quickest way."
Unable to contain herself, Barbara blurted out the rest of it right out: "I think I know his real identity. I think Black Mask is my boss and your employee --- Sean Romaine."
Now Bruce did look up at her, steepling his hands on the table in front of him and resting his chin on top. "That's an extremely serious charge, Barbara."
"I can back it up, Bruce --- with evidence."
"Then do so."
It all came out in a rush. Barbara found she couldn't speak fast enough as she told him about the requisitions for expensive electronic equipment --- equipment she could find nowhere in the lab. "Not only that," she said, "but it's all advanced transmitting and receiving gear --- stuff that doesn't even apply to the Compu-Link program."
Then she told him about the three universities she had phoned, the ones Sean Romaine had listed on his job application but that had never heard of him.
And there was also the matter of the blueprints, altered to accommodate something that could easily be a mystery chip.
"WayneTech has never used chips like that," Bruce interrupted.
"And if Sean is planning to use them now," Barbara countered, "you don't think he'd tell anyone, do you?"
"Have you actually seen any of those chips in the lab?"
"Well, no, but..." she trailed off.
"But what, Barbara?"
"I don't know the details, but I do know Roman is up to something down at WayneTech. I can feel it in my..."
"Not good enough," Bruce said flatly.
"Look, Bruce, I couldn't believe it either, not at first. I thought it was just one long train of creepy coincidences. But this train has too many cars. It's a mile long. There's definitely something weird and shady about Sean Romaine."
Bruce almost smiled. "You could say the same thing about me, Barbara."
She fumbled at the air, getting frustrated now. "You know what I mean."
Bruce rose slowly and paced along the long bookshelves. Barbara had the impression he was looking for a decision. "Sean may be unusual," he finally said, "and falsifying one's academic record is serious." He stopped and looked at Barbara. "But it does not make him Black Mask."
Barbara was so frustrated she had to bite her tongue. How could she get through to this man? His logic may have been perfectly rational, but it was also perfectly maddening. There had to be some way to convince him, and she had to find it. She looked around and shook her head, trying to rattle the answer loose. Nothing. Bruce was watching her, waiting.
Then it was right in front of her, and she jumped on it. "His own words," she said, feeling like a dolt. Truth wasn't always a collection of cold facts; sometimes it was found in subjective impressions, intuitions, maybe even feelings that bordered on extrasensory perception. "All the creepy things he said about computers, Bruce."
"What things, Barbara?"
Too late now, she thought. "Well... the first night I worked overtime with him, for instance, he... he actually scared me, Bruce. I mean, he really lost it, went right over the edge. Almost raving, you know? He showed this crazy side of himself I'd never seen before. You had to be there, probably, to really understand what I'm..."
"Exactly what did he say, Barbara?"
He was cutting right to the chase, as usual, and for once she didn't blame him. I sound totally lame, she thought, rambling all over the place. And with a sinking feeling that almost took her breath away, she suddenly knew why: I have no real proof. In a court of law, I would have exactly zilch. Case dismissed.
"Barbara?"
There was only one way out, so she took it, plowing straight ahead: "Well, he... he made his ultimate goal sound like... like mind control... at least if the program were somehow applied to human brains rather than computers. Which is exactly what Black Mask is doing, isn't it? I mean, Roman was talking about things that sounded a lot like E.D.O.M. and R.H.I.C. and ---"
"Dick told you about that?"
"Barbara shook her head. "Uncle Alfred," she said. "I think he was hoping to keep me involved, maybe even trying to change my mind about ---"
"Leave your cycle in the garage tomorrow," Bruce said. "I'll drive you to WayneTech."
Barbara turned away to hide her fierce smile. Somehow, against all odds, she'd done it: she had actually convinced him. She turned back, under control again. "Then you're going to confront Sean and ---"
Bruce lifted a hand to stop her. "I'm doing this reluctantly," he said. "Whether or not he has earned genuine degrees in science and engineering, Sean Romaine has always performed well for WayneTech." He paused. "And I'm still less than convinced by the weight of your evidence. But you have uncovered certain things that are too important to ignore. If you're right, lives could be at stake."
"And saved," Barbara said.
"But if you're wrong," Bruce went on, "Sean's life could be ruined." He looked directly into her eyes, and the effect was almost electric. "I hope, Barbara, that you are not wrong." Then he stepped right past her and strode from the library, turning in the direction of the grandfather clock.
So his night was just beginning, not ending. But he'd be back before dawn, Barbara knew, with plenty of time to shower again before driving her to WayneTech. Maybe this was the key to his intensity: lack of sleep.
Whatever its source, that intensity could be downright scary. But Barbara wasn't worried about being wrong. She was more certain than ever, in fact, that she was right --- and the certainty was exciting. She left the library pumped with pride. She had nailed it, cracking a mystery that had stumped the Darknight Detective himself. And she had done it all as Barbara Wilson, not Batgirl.
Not as a member of some team, but all on her own. As herself.
"Why, yes," Sean Romaine said, "I did requisition that equipment, Mr. Wayne."
From her workstation across the lab, Barbara Wilson watched as Bruce Wayne played it in neutral fashion, neither smiling nor accusing. "And where is the equipment now, Mr. Romaine?"
"Well, I... I took it home, Mr. Wayne, but only so I could work on a side project during weekends."
Some side project, thought Barbara. Turning crooks into zombie slaves...
Sean was digging through one of his desk drawers. "And I think it's starting to pay off well," he said. "Here, have a look, Mr. Wayne." And he extended a thick sheaf of what looked like drawings and notes.
Barbara was immediately suspicious. She desperately wanted a closer look at those notes, but the whole point of remaining at her station was to prevent Sean from realizing she was the cause of Bruce's supposedly impromptu inspection. Still, she glimpsed enough of the papers to know they were something new. She'd gone through Sean's desk twice and had never seen anything like them. Did he already know who was behind this surprise visit by Bruce Wayne? Was Sean aware of her snooping activities all along? And had he prepared his own "innocent excuse" in the form of these notes?
"I just brought them in this morning," Sean was saying. "I got excited by how my idea is coming along, you see, and I thought I might work on it during lunch."
Or was there any possibility --- even just one in a zillion --- that she was completely and utterly wrong about everything?
Bruce shuffled through the papers. "Some new transceiver system?" he asked.
No, not even one in a zillion. She couldn't be wrong.
"Yes," Sean said. "If I can find a way to transmit a dense enough data stream, we could eliminate the need for modems and phone lines. I know it seems like a step backward in this age of fiber optics, Mr. Wayne, but just think of it --- unlimited access to the Internet, and all for free. Or at least free after every user buys a brand-new WayneTech-patented transceiver, of course. If I pull this off, Mr. Wayne, the increased revenue for this company ---"
"Would be enormous," Bruce said. "And you'll receive a generous bonus, Sean, I assure you."
Barbara kept her head down and bit her lower lip. Bogus or not, the notes were obviously convincing.
Bruce handed the sheaf back. "Excellent work," he said. "But I'd like to discuss some irregularities in your personnel file, specifically in your listing of universities and degrees."
Sean looked stunned. "You found out," he said, hanging his head in shame. "I... I'm so sorry, Mr. Wayne. I never wanted to deceive you or the company, but you're right and I admit it... I did lie on my job application. I didn't earn any of those degrees... never attended those schools. I couldn't afford any of them, not back then." He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders began to tremble. "Everything I learned was from the public library," he said, his voice ready to crack. "But I think I've shown that my knowledge is enough to ---"
"More than enough, Bruce said reassuringly. He put a hand on the man's shoulder to steady him. "Carry on, Sean --- and keep up the good work."
Barbara caught Bruce out in the hall. "He's just acting," she hissed. "You can see that, can't you?"
Bruce looked at her, his eyes hard. "What I see," he said very softly, "is that you're not doing so well outside the cave either."
Then he was gone, leaving her stung and disbelieving. She wanted to go after him. She wanted to tug on his arm and plead and protest. She wanted to pound a wall and shout the truth. But she knew she couldn't press it, not now, not without absolute proof.
She turned back into the lab, where Sean wore a mask of utter innocence. It would be a long day, and already she couldn't wait for it to end.
Barbara Wilson emerged from WayneTech to find her "uncle" in his livery uniform, standing next to one of Bruce Wayne's vintage limousines. This one was either a Bentley or a Rolls-Royce, she wasn't quite sure. Not that it mattered.
Alfred opened the rear passenger door. His slight bow invited her to enter the back seat luxury of buttery leather and polished wood. Dejectedly, she got in and sat down without a word.
They eased out into the afternoon rush hour. "Master Bruce told me what happened this morning," Alfred said. "I imagine that's the source of your upset?"
Barbara said nothing.
Alfred tooted the horn, alerting a would-be lane-changer to just how long the limo was. "Master Bruce demands a lot from others," he said, "especially from his wards and partners --- almost as much as he demands of himself."
Barbara still said nothing.
She didn't say a single word the entire ride back to Wayne Manor.
The remainder of that week, after spending each day at WayneTech, Barbara Wilson spent each evening moonlighting at Joe's diner, sometimes going directly there without returning to Wayne Manor. Much to her surprise, she found that she enjoyed it. There was a hard core of regular customers: Bill the insomniac, who sat in the corner all night; the Agnew sisters, who sang a late gig at a bar and always came in for coffee afterward; Andy and Rhonda and half a dozen other young actors and actresses from a nearby theater; and the cleaners and drivers and delivery people who kept the city running while its citizens were asleep.
Some of them were kind, some crabby; some polite, others as rude as any she'd ever met. But they were all people, and as Barbara went about serving them, cleaning up after them, making sure they got what they ordered, she learned to look at them in a different light. Okay, so on the surface they were all different. Bill was moody and depressed, Dave the driver was always telling vulgar jokes, Sheila Agnew had a high-pitched laugh that Barbara often feared would shatter the cups. But under the skin they all had the same hopes and fears, the same ambitions and dreams. They wanted happiness, and love, the chance to enjoy themselves... the same as people everywhere. How could Sean Romaine say he preferred computers to people?
Joe complained a lot, but in a humorous sort of way, and Barbara knew he must love the life, or he wouldn't have been doing it for forty years. "Nah, it's a habit," he said gruffly. "I just can't get out of it. For a lot of my customers I'm like a doctor, or a social worker, or the family they don't have. Somebody to talk to, to confide in, to share the little highs and lows that make up life. What would they do if I quit?"
Barbara's fifth night was a Saturday, the busiest of the week. Even after midnight, the diner always had a couple dozen customers. Barbara had already proven to Joe she was a good worker, serving tables, washing up, even lugging heavy crates of supplies. But Saturday was when her other talents were called upon.
Barbara noticed the guy as soon as he entered --- cropped hair, a scar on one cheek, a thick silver ring on every finger. She wasn't one to judge by appearances, but there was a cold glint in the man's eyes that made her wary. Joe was holding court in his favorite chair, haranguing one of the regular customers about something. Barbara delivered the stack of waffles with maple syrup and ice cream --- amazing what folks want at one in the morning! --- and turned back to the counter for the drinks.
Scarface was talking to Joe. "I got no money," the old man was protesting, but Scarface was insistent.
"Everybody knows about your secret stash!" He reached into his jacket and pulled something out. Barbara stared in disbelief. Dangling by its tail from the man's fingers was a dead rat!
"That's how you'll end up, if you don't pay up!" Scarface sneered, and threw the rat's body down on the counter.
The guy turned to leave. Barbara stepped in front of him, intending to confront him about his actions, but with no warning Scarface shoved her back hard and ran out the door. Barbara stumbled over a diner's feet and went down in a heap on the floor, her metal tray clanging like a bell as it hit the tabletop.
"Sorry, sorry," Barbara mumbled to the customer as she got up and hurried out the door.
She saw Scarface run across the street and started to go after him. But just then the traffic light turned green, unleashing a flood of cars and taxis. Barbara had already begun to run, and as the traffic bore down on her she had to make a split-second decision. Return to the sidewalk, and risk losing Scarface completely --- or go for it. Barbara went for it.
A car came straight at her, horn blaring as the impatient driver thumped it with his fist. But the intensive training in the Batcave had taught her to block out everything and concentrate on the task at hand. She leaped into the air, her left foot coming down on the car's hood. She saw the driver's surprised face, his mouth twisted in a curse as she sprang away again.
Her leap took her onto the roof of a black sedan. Swaying, she extended her arms to steady herself as the car rounded a corner. She kicked off with both feet, and with outstretched arms just caught onto the stout metal casing of a hanging sign. Using the momentum she'd gained from her leap, the girl swung once, then back, then forward again, kicking hard for extra height. At the exact apex of her swing she let go, her body curving through the air gracefully, to land on the curb a few yards in front of the fleeing Scarface.
"Going somewhere?" Barbara asked. A look of surprise, then anger, crossed the man's face. His hand shot into his pocket, and Barbara's eyes narrowed as she saw the glint of steel. A switchblade!
Instinctively, Barbara stepped back as Scarface swung the sharp blade in a wild arc. She remembered the rules of combat Batman had taught her --- disarm your opponent at the earliest opportunity. She didn't give the man a chance to swing again. As she swayed nimbly back, the intended blow missing her by a full foot, she drove the flat edge of her hand into his arm.
Scarface snorted with pain and dropped the knife. Barbara didn't wait to see if he had any other weapon. Her fist shot into his stomach, doubling him over. Before the villain could straighten up, the girl had his hands in a painful wristlock behind his back.
Ignoring Scarface's protests and the stares of passersby, Barbara frog-marched him back to the diner and hustled him inside.
"What's this all about?" Barbara demanded.
Scarface was sullenly silent, and Joe looked uncomfortable.
"He was trying to extract protection money," the old man finally said. "But I told him I won't pay!"
"Have you called the police?" she asked.
Joe shrugged. "What's the point? It's my word against his."
Barbara opened her mouth, ready to argue. But then she shrugged. This was Joe's diner. He was the boss. Curling her lip in contempt, she pushed Scarface toward the door. "Get out," she said coldly. "And if you ever come back, I'll make sure you choke on your rat!"
"I hired the right girl, eh, sweetie?" Joe's voice broke the silence of the diner. "That was some stunt you pulled."
Barbara Wilson shrugged noncommittally. Thinking back, she could see she'd been showing off a little, fired up by the thrill of the situation. Just like when I was Batgirl, she thought, then immediately dismissed the thought.
"See, most folks are honest and decent," Joe went on. "But there's a criminal element seeks them out and preys on them --- like a mosquito, or a vampire. Ordinary folks need hotshots like you to help them!"
"What about the police" Barbara asked.
Joe shook his head. "They got murders, and arson, and robberies, and a million other things to take care of. Like that Black Mask thing. I can't bother them about a guy with a dead rat and a few threats. But you fixed him. He won't be back."
"Was what the crook said true? Do you keep a lot of cash on the premises?"
Joe settled himself onto his chair and poured them both coffee. "My daughter lives in Australia. I have three grandkids and a son-in-law who I've only seen in photographs. I've been saving my tips to go out there sometime --- so I have a little tucked away in case I need it fast. Hey!" He slapped the table. "Maybe I could even go this year, if you'd be willing to run the place for the autumn while I'm gone."
Barbara was surprised. "You'd trust me to do that?"
For once, the old man was serious as he looked into the girl's eyes. "Barbara, I don't know what it is about you. You're clever, friendly, quick to learn. I get the feeling you're special. But there's something you're holding back. You never talk about your past. Now that's okay," he added hurriedly. "That's your right. But if you ever feel like unloading it, Joe's your man."
It was on the tip of Barbara's tongue to blurt it all out --- her time with Batman and Robin, ehher brief life as Batgirl, her capturing of the villains. But she couldn't. She'd promised Batman she'd never say a word of their involvement to anyone. She had to keep that promise, because if she broke it there was no telling in whose hands the information would end up. Criminal hands, most likely.
If Batman's secret identity became known, it would be the end of the Dark Knight's crimefighting career.
Instead, Barbara said, "Thanks, Joe. And I'll do my best. Which means --- sure, I'd be honored to mind the diner for you. We'll soon see who misses your cooking!"
Tommy Noonan had bought the guitar and the mini-amp. At first his folks had been convinced he'd stolen them, until he produced the receipt from the shop. Then they wanted to know where he'd gotten the money. He spun a tale about finding a winning lottery ticket. They still looked suspicious, but it was enough to satisfy them for now. They didn't really believe him, but they never suspected for one moment that their son had deliberately robbed people.
He even bought a Learn Guitar in 30 Days tutorial book. But he never opened it. He couldn't concentrate on playing guitar, or anything else except his next nighttime adventure.
Tommy had discovered that he liked frightening people. He liked taking their money. It made him feel powerful. And even better --- he could make big money doing it! Despite his best intentions, he'd spent nearly all his newly acquired cash at the arcade; somehow when there were girls around, he couldn't stop himself from showing off.
Maybe I should get a girlfriend, he thought, briefly picturing the girl who'd beaten up the rat-carrying thug at Joe's Diner. But then again, she'd just get in the way of... my secret.
Your secret...! As always, Tommy snuffed out the small voice of his conscience the moment it popped into his head. He didn't like to spend too much time thinking about what he had done. It was easier to justify it to himself, saying that people were soft and lazy; they deserved to be preyed on. It was the law of the jungle, wasn't it? The strong always eat the weak.
