Fans
No spoilers, no extra characters, and I don't own nothin'. Sue me, and all you'll get is the car that even the insurance company totaled out, a five-year-old toothbrush, and a bag of cat food.
"Lex. A science fiction convention?"
At twelve, Lex was already skilled in the art of cool stubbornness and misdirection. He waved a negligent hand. "New ideas, father. Possible social contacts," a practiced sneer, "Unlikely, I know, but it's an insignificant investment of time and money. You yourself have always advocated exploring," a lift of an eyebrow, "Unlikely alternatives."
Though he wasn't about to admit it, Lionel was both proud of and amazed by his son. The boy had mastered the power of being a Luthor incredibly quickly, after that disastrous visit to Smallville. It was as if the meteor strike that had nearly killed him had, indeed, made him stronger. That he had also become careless and arrogant was something Lionel shrugged off as precocious incipient teenage rebellion, to be both expected and outgrown.
And to be honest, Lionel would far rather Lex be at some gauche public spectacle like a science fiction convention, with borderline schizophrenics dressed up in elaborate costumes and dirty socks, than at the underground clubs where Luthor money had bought a seriously illegal violation of the age rules, and an even more seriously illegal experimentation with controlled substances. Lex had dismissed his use of cocaine as "not very impressive." Lionel didn't even want to imagine what he had already found that was more "impressive."
Lex kept his cool blue-gray eyes on his father, gaging his reaction, looking for a moment to exploit. The lesson of looking for chinks in the opponent's armor had already been beaten into him, and he knew with no uncertainty that his wit was both his only weapon and defense. Truth to tell, he wanted desperately to go hang out with the self-professed geeks, to be around people who valued intellect and didn't care what you looked like. Being a scrawny bald freak would be just another costume. Automatically having a snarky comeback at the tip of your tongue was applauded in science fiction fandom. It was a place where he could fit in.
What he would never, ever tell his father was that the only thing he found more boring than his father's business life and obsession with money and power was the drugs and the losers who resorted to them, that the ruthlessness and false glitter and being able to buy whatever crap you wanted rather than having to work for it, no matter how convenient it was, held no real attraction for him. Lionel seemed to expect him to be a problem case. Lionel Luthor would never have stood for a son who was happy being around the fringes of society who thought reading and writing and strangeness and dreams was the definition of fun.
"Very well," Lionel said with a bored sigh. "So long as you take a chauffeur and bodyguard. And please, nothing that will make the front page of the Inquisitor this time."
Lex froze his automatic frown. "I doubt that I'll be in any danger from Klingons, dad," he said neutrally. "Is the bodyguard absolutely necessary? That might make the front page of the Inquisitor all on its own. 'Heir guarded at sci-fi con.' Hardly unobtrusive."
Lionel considered his heir. The boy was not nearly as hard to read as he thought he was, but then, he was only twelve. Lionel doubted he himself had been that good at that age.
Lionel flicked his fingers in a dismissive wave. "Just the chauffeur, then. He can stay in the car. Carry an emergency button as well as your phone."
Lex smiled thinly to disguise the joy inside. "Of course."
The Metropolis Area Science Fiction Convention ("WorldCon bid for 2020!") boasted five author guests of honor, two pro and seven fan artist guests of honor, three con suites, a dealer's room the size of an insurance sales convention ballroom, six tracks of panels including one devoted entirely to hard science, an ongoing hallway costume competition, and a formal costume competition slated to last six hours which would probably last ten. Lex was in heaven. He dressed desultorily as a Doctor Who with a bad wig, which made him about as noticeable as the fragments of corn chips on the con suite floor. He loved every minute of it.
The hard-science panels included the usual on future space vehicles, and Lex listened intently and with growing disbelief to their unrealistic plans. Didn't any of these people have a clue about business? There were the space buffs with their long-range projections (a good way to lose a billion dollars in a hurry, Lex thought), and the bottom-line managers sneering at the cost of research and development (and where would YOU be without rural electricity, Lex sneered back, but quietly). Space, the final frontier, was looking more and more like space, the way to make enemies out of damn near everyone. Sounded like his cup of tea.
There was an all-day filksing that Lex made the mistake of wandering in to before noon. Some well-known songwriters and singers were passing around a bottle of Tullimore Dew while refining the phrases to "Toast for the Unknown Heroes," at ten in the morning.
"Here's a health to the man who walks the moon, and the module crew above. And the team that watches from their sky with worry, joy and love. To all who blazed the sky-trail, come raise your glasses 'round, And a health to the unknown heroes, too, who never left the ground."
Of course, considering that they hadn't yet gone to sleep from the day before, this was not exactly scandalous. But having Emily shove a bottle into his hand and demand that he sing along would have made the Inquisitor's front page for certain, if the filksingers would actually have allowed anyone with a camera into the room. (Frank had been known to hit unwelcome intruders with his twelve-string guitar.) Lex raised the bottle in a toast and joined in, his changing tenor practically unnoticed between very drunk pros and thoroughly wasted rank amateurs. Lex made a note to buy certain tapes and have other burned.
There was a panel on the meteor strike from a few years back that he couldn't help but sit in on, wishing he could have convinced them to allow a twelve-year-old on the panel. "Hey, I was there, practically at ground zero. You want a first-hand account?" He kept his mouth shut. Drawing attention to himself that way would have smacked of self-pity.
The dealer's room was selling meteor fragments set in some fairly artistic pieces. He bought some as souvenirs. The heavy ring was quite adult-looking, though he didn't normally go in for jewelry. The dragon-and-sorcerer piece, though, glittering with green globes and flames and lightning, would have to stay hidden in his room. Not that Lionel would have minded the thousand-dollar price tag (which wasn't bad, for high-quality art, in fact, it would probably appreciate in value), but the subject matter would have drawn a dismissive comment.
Cursory conversation with the artist as he examined the pieces revealed that the meteor fragments were, in fact, the cheapest part of the work. Despite their attractive emerald coloring, they were as common as any other rock around the area of the strike, and as easy to work with. Some shattered along a crystalline line, some could actually be molded under heat. Hardly the nickel-iron you expected of most meteorites, but not the hardness of a glassine structure either.
A few hours later, after several visits to the con suites (there was a sign posted that said "No alcohol served to minors," but no enforcement after Lex tossed a couple of fifties into the collection jar), and a few beers, and some fascinating round-robin conversations with the authors, the subject of the meteorites so close by came up again. In between stories about fake moon rocks ("they're probably still trying to sell those things on e-bay!") and the possible indication of life in the rocks from Mars ("And how do they know they're from Mars and not the asteroid belt?"), a plot was hatched to drive over to the strike site and check it out for themselves. Lex found his limo and chauffeur volunteered as part of the convoy. He agreed, on the condition that no one tell the chauffeur about the Tullimore Dew.
Noon the next day found them all hung over and wondering what the hell they were doing. But the costume contest had been a drag, and the dead-dog party wasn't for half a day yet, so about half of the previous night's enthusiasts set out for Smallville to look for meteors.
Lex, with the luxury of kicking back in his limo with two authors and an artist and the con organizer (who had recognized him early on, but earned Lex's appreciation by saying nothing until last night), needled the others into speculations about the meteor storm. Why so many at once? Why not more damage? Where had they come from? The adults, not used to such pointed and insightful questions from a pre-teen, were torn between being cautious and letting their imaginations roam free. Their own speculative natures finally took precedence.
Lex was enjoying the hell out of himself. He could be a Luthor AND a geek at the same time. It was exhilarating.
They pulled up to something that looked suspiciously like a farm feed store a few hours later, when Lex decreed by cell phone that refreshments and a bathroom break were in order before the meteorite hunt. The limo had a well stocked supply of the former, but unless a Luthor wanted to be seen in an RV (not a bad idea after all, that, Lex reflected), the latter required a fixed facility. The rest of the convoy, not so well equipped, readily agreed.
The general store was crowded. Lex was surprised. Wasn't it called SMALLville? And he got another shock a few minutes later when a woman came over to them and shyly addressed one of the authors by name, saying how much she had enjoyed his latest (by name), and asking if he were planning a sequel to one of his earlier ones (by name). A Smallville farm wife (okay, he was just assuming she was a farm wife, but in those clothes, a pretty safe bet) who read science fiction. Lex felt as if he had stepped into another dimension.
A small boy, maybe six or so, came running up to his mother, declaring that daddy-has-everything-and-it's-time-to-go-and-who-are-these-people? His chatter broke off suddenly as he went pale, gasped, and fell to his knees with a choked cry of terrified pain that made Lex shudder all the way through. He had a visceral aversion to seeing little children being hurt.
"Clark?" The woman knelt beside her son, obviously concerned, but curiously, not touching him. "What is it? What's wrong?" The child doubled over, gagging, sobbing.
The science fiction crowd stood around them, frozen. Lex, not too old to remember a mother's comfort, knelt beside the child and tried to put an arm around him. Shock traveled up his arm when both the woman and the child shoved him away -- the woman in obvious alarm, as if she thought he were a child molester or something, but the child with an abrupt scream and a blow that left his arm numb from bicep to fingertips. If the woman hadn't moved him mostly out of the way in time, the impact would have broken his forearm.
Lex looked down at the damaged arm. He was a Luthor, he did not yell or cry or make useless threats. Especially at a child or a farm wife. Or in front of famous authors and artists and people who thought strangeness was an adventure to be embraced.
But as a Luthor, he wondered the hell how a kid less than half his age, and in obvious distress, had managed to hit him -- not, apparently, out of any deliberate desire to cause harm -- hard enough to leave what he knew, from experience, was going to be a five-color bruise.
He hadn't been hit that hard since he'd stolen, and wrecked, the Lamborghini.
His eyes traveled to the numb fingers. The new green-stone ring caught his eye, its attractive glitter for some reason, suddenly, malevolent. A piece of a meteor. A piece of the meteors that had, in fact, nearly killed him, put him in the hospital, cost him his hair, made him a freak. Had done a few other things to him, he suspected, since he hadn't had an asthma attack or even a cold in years, and had developed an uncanny ability to keep up with dear old dad (though that was more likely due to learning to out-insult his peers while staying calm).
Could it, this piece of rock from somewhere unknown, made of who knew what, be the cause somehow? Everyone had been so careful with the moon rocks, they had been kept hermetically sealed and under guard for years. And they had turned out to be basically no more than charcoal. The meteors, though, had attracted surprisingly little investigation or analysis after a first diagnosis of "mostly harmless" (thank you so much, Doug Adams, Lex thought sarcastically), and practically nothing was known about them (one more black mark against NASA; Lex resolved to have some investigations opened into government agencies with more than just an eye to starting his own launch company). And yet here he was, here they all were, playing with rocks from outer space.
He stood up and backed away, eyes narrowing, Luthor training fully engaged. The small child collapsed, panting, but the tension of pain was obviously ebbing away.
Luthors never, ever missed a bet, or gave away an advantage. Lex backed off further, carefully, watching the child as closely as he dared without being caught at it, and took off the ring made with its rock from outer space. Pure Luthor science-geek speculation. He left it in a trash can with the rotting produce. He could always have it retrieved later if he wanted.
He moved toward the sobbing child again, slowly, prepared to back up again if his guess was off base. The boy didn't react. Lex knelt down beside him again, and touched him tentatively, all too aware now from the spreading hematoma why the boy's mother had tried to push him out of the way. He'd heard of panic strength before, but.... "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just a costume, see?" He took off the god-awful hat he'd adopted for his hall costume (and for protection against the summer sun), shooting a hard grin at his companions and daring them to make something of the bald twelve-year-old with the limousine.
"We're playing a game. Pretending to be someone we're not. It's nothing to be afraid of." Though obviously, Lex saw in both the woman's sharp and swiftly concealed change of expression, and the dawning realization on the faces of his companions, the little boy certainly did have something to be afraid of, and that it had something to do with pretending to be something you weren't. Something that had to do with the meteorites, though so far Lex was pretty sure he was the only one who had figured that part out yet, because of the ring.
The boy's mother had moved tentatively to hold her son closer as a rangy man came storming up. "I was loading the truck when I heard Clark scream. What the hell happened?"
"I don't know, Jonathan." The boy moved into her arms and clutched her, still sniffling, and struggling unevenly for breath. Like someone who had just been released from torture, Lex thought, remembering some of the "other" movies from dear old dad's library.
The woman only flinched a little bit under her son's grip, as if trying to conceal the impression that something had injured her (like a child who could break someone's bones by accident?), but Lex caught it anyway. "Clark had another attack. He seems to be okay now." Her gaze brushed across Lex's over the boy's head, far too worried for a mother whose child had just had a bout of, oh, for example, asthma or colic. Lex hooded his eyes.
The rangy man -- Jonathan -- glared at the strangers, and then turned an especially suspicious look on Lex. "Who are you, and what do you have to do with this?"
"Jonathan!" the woman said sharply. "They're just visiting. They're hardly to blame!" Lex turned around to give a shrug of his eyebrows to his -- heh, trust a Luthor to consider famous authors and scientists as guests of a twelve-year-old -- okay, companions, and sent an especially raised eyebrow at the author the woman had recognized earlier.
The man moved forward and introduced himself with the smoothness of someone used to public appearances. He gave a brief introduction (with qualifications) of the rest of them, saving Lex for last. Lex did not miss the open hostility that flared in Jonathan's eyes at the name. He returned the gaze coolly. Something to ask his father about, no doubt.
"We're here from a -- meeting -- in Metropolis, to take a look at the meteorite sites," the author finished, smiling with a certain displeasure at their reception. "But if it's too much trouble for you, we'll be heading back now. Sorry to bother you."
Jonathan sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his wife and son, and at Lex, who was still crouching quietly on the sick child's other side. He scowled, but shook his head and forced the expression away. "No, my apologies. That was unfair of me." He gave them an all-too-obviously practiced smile. "Anyone in town can tell you I have a temper. Kinda famous for it, in fact. And we worry a lot about Clark. He's -- special to us. We just don't like seeing him hurt. But I didn't mean to be rude."
"I assure you, any parent understands that. Most of us have children too."
Jonathan's obviously false smile unexpectedly slid over into a real one, as if he'd simply changed the subject in his own head. Lex blinked. That would be an interesting trick to learn. "Is there anything I, we, can help you with? We don't have a lot to offer here. Small town, you know, but we don't want to give you -- or any strangers -- a bad impression."
"As I said, we have a professional interest in the meteorites. Perhaps you could direct us to any sites of interest? Impact areas, or catalogued collections?"
Jonathan's eyes -- and the woman's, Lex was the only one to note, being so close to her -- went flat, and withdrawn. The Luthor in him recognized an amateur poker player with something to hide. "Pretty much anywhere," Jonathan said neutrally, smile going false and small again. "They're all over the place. But not many people want to play tour guide. It was a bad time for the town. We lost friends in the meteor storm. There was a lot of -- damage."
"...Oh." The science fiction fans looked at each other with slightly abashed uneasiness. They had thought of a meteor fall as an adventure, something to discuss avidly over beers. They hadn't considered that, for the residents, it would have been a deadly disaster that a lot of people would still really rather not be interviewed about. "I'm sorry."
The rangy farmer shrugged stoically. "Things happen. Life goes on. You deal with it or you don't." The authors went rigid in their attempt to keep from laughing out loud. If they had written anything like that, they would have been thrown out of their editor's office.
Lex was still watching, with trained diffidence, the young boy's tear-stained face. He did indeed seem to be perfectly fine now, though he was still hiding against his mother. Hardly unusual. Lex remembered doing that himself, a long time ago. He shoved that old unwanted memory back into its lockbox. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked quietly.
The youngster nodded. "Just keep it away," he mumbled.
"Keep what away?" When the boy hitched and tightened his grip on his mother (who gasped and then bit her lip, Lex noticed, as if she'd been hurt and was trying hard not to show it), Lex backed away a little. "You mean the ring? The green stone? The meteorite?"
Terror flashed across his face, and he nodded once before hiding his face again.
Lex reached over and smoothed the sweaty hair back from the child's forehead. He was suddenly struck with a powerful sense of deja vu, only backwards. Backwards in time, rather than forward. A child touching his head reassuringly, rather than him touching....
...Clark?
The day the meteors came down....
Oh, hell. He had definitely been way too long around the science fiction convention. Lex Luthor, boy genius, heir to Luther Corp, indulging in wacko fantasies about a little boy that he sort-of remembered in his deepest feverish nightmares, all mixed up with the meteor storm, the horror and screams and hospital and pain and.... Stop it.
Ridiculous idea. That the little boy in front of him, who had apparently collapsed in helpless agony from the near touch of a half-ounce of those same meteors, who was strong enough to nearly break his arm trying to push away something because it hurt, was the same one who had reached out and gently stroked his head. The day the meteors came down.
He'd be just about the right age, too.... Stop it.
Jonathan looked over at Lex, and his eyes went hard again. Definitely something going on that he would have to worm out of dear old dad, Lex thought.
"The ones that hit the town were all carted off to the landfill," he said, with obvious bitter relish. "Your youngster there might like to go crawling through the trash for them."
Lex smirked. If that was supposed to insult him, Jonathan didn't know the world of Luthors very well. He'd gotten far worse from the other ten-year-olds at boarding school years ago. "I might, at that," he said mildly, standing and brushing off his hideous Doctor Who slacks. "What do you say, fellow adventurers? Shall we go trash-diving?"
One of the authors laughed nervously, but the rest of them sent up an enthusiastic chorus of agreement. It couldn't be any worse than the con suite's stale cheese popcorn, anyway, declared the con organizer. The artist, not to be outdone, went over to the trash can and dug through the rotting vegetables. "Dunno why you threw your ring away, but if you don't want it, I'll take it." He shook most of the crud off and put it on, admiring it. "Green's not my favorite color, but hey, maybe I could trade it for a bottle at the dead-dog party."
Lex backed up fast, "accidentally" bumping into the artist. "Fine, you can have it. I was getting tired of it anyway." Now there was a Luthorism for you. Spoiled bored little rich kid. Nobody would ever know that his motive was to keep his dear old dad from asking questions about the peculiar stone. "So let's get moving already, or we'll miss the dead-dog."
General agreement with that, and the resupplied and refreshed fans trooped out. Lex's chauffeur kept a wooden face as he was directed to restock the limo's liquids and help carry whatever the other fans wanted (rank hath its privileges, Lex smirked; the chauffeur had drawn this particular duty for showing up late and drunk for dear old dad one morning). Lex himself stayed where he was long enough to make sure the artist had to detour around him to get to the door, rather than pass by the woman and child in front of them. The artist, still admiring his new ring, and still more than slightly hung over, didn't notice enough to care.
Lex, his gaze ostensibly roaming between his companions and Jonathan's hostile glare, was in fact reserving most of his covert attention for Clark. The little boy's wide, fearful eyes followed the artist. Specifically, the artist's hand with its new ring.
Lex brought up the rear of what he was already mentally calling his entourage, but paused five steps past the family tableau. "And, Jonathan," he said in his most casual Luthor voice -- he didn't use the first name to annoy the older man on purpose, but asking for the last name would have been making a concession, and besides, a little annoyance here was just tit for tat -- "If I were you, I'd keep Clark away from the landfill."
The farmer (an easy enough assumption, from the clothes, though Lex wondered what assumptions Smallvillians had made of his Doctor Who outfit), blinked, then glared, as if to say, who are you to tell me what to do about my son? Lex quirked his lips to keep from sighing. They still didn't get it? Maybe the meteors had affected their minds.
"And he probably shouldn't play around any of the other meteor strike sites, either," he added over his shoulder, with a negligent wave as he strolled out the door.
Jonathan and Martha stared after him for a long minute, then at each other, then finally down at Clark, who was still huddled in Martha's arms. "The meteorites...?"
"Not here. Let's go." Jonathan picked up his adopted son, bracing himself for the bone-cracking strength of the arms flung around his neck. Clark was learning to be careful, but he was also getting stronger by the week. Once in the truck, Clark settled happily and securely between them, away from prying eyes and ears, he shook his head. "But the meteors came down with Clark. How could they be what's causing his attacks?"
"I'm not an expert on rocks from outer space, Jonathan. But I've noticed that he doesn't go near the storm cellar." They'd collected the rocks that had been near his ship and hidden them all together, for fear that the rocks might have traces of something that would give away something about the ship. In retrospect, that was kind of stupid, since the meteorites really were all over the place, and a hole plowed into the ground without any rocks near it was more suspicious than a hole without any, but it was too late to put them back, and the weather was doing a fair job of covering up the holes by now anyway.
"We told him not to." Jonathan looked down at his son. "You don't go places when we tell you to stay away from them, right? You're a good boy."
Martha snorted. When they'd told Clark not to climb the rotten tree in the orchard, that was the very next thing he did. Good thing he was tougher than the ground.
Clark squirmed and looked down. "Hurts," he whispered.
The Kents exchanged a look that was broken only when Jonathan swerved off the road and had to face forward again. "The storm cellar hurts you?" Martha prompted carefully.
Clark seemed to fold in on himself, hugging his arms close. "...Yes."
"Why didn't you tell us, son?"
Clark shivered. "Not supposed to hurt. Not supposed to tell."
Jonathan was puzzled, but Martha understood. "All your fault, stubborn old man. You and your macho, never-admit-to-being-hurt. He's trying to imitate you. Plus what we've had to say about keeping secrets. Clark, you don't have to keep secrets from us. Only from other people. We're your parents, we're supposed to protect you. When something hurts you, or something scares you, we need to know." Because we probably can't even imagine what.
"Okay." Clark hesitated, as if trying to think it out. "The green rocks hurt."
"Damnation," Jonathan swore softly.
"Jonathan!" Martha put a protective hand around Clark's small shoulders. "I'm sorry, honey. We didn't know. We'll get rid of the green rocks."
"The worst thing is," Jonathan growled, "It took a Luthor to figure it out. And I could swear that I would never in my life see a Luthor dressed like a Doctor Who."
Lex and his entourage pulled up to the Smallville town dump with an enthusiasm that had been bolstered by Lex's purchase of pretty much the entire store's stock of beer. The receiving workers gave the limo a disbelieving look, and the rest of the still half-in-costume group an even more disbelieving look, but shrugged and let it pass. They'd seen stranger things, especially since the meteors came down. The eight-legged raccoon with the opposable thumb on each paw only let them see it because it knew they weren't any danger to it.
Two hours and six cases of beer later, the fans declared themselves well satisfied with the haul of meteor rocks, and various other treasures uncovered in the course of their personal recycling quest. ("What the hell do you want with six burned-out microwaves?" Slightly slurred. "Th' big magnets, a' course." Rather more than slightly slurred.)
Lex himself had acquired only a few choice specimens, since he figured that would be all he could hide from dear old dad. As the artist had said, some were crystalline, some more metallic. Some glittered, some glowed bright enough to see even in direct sunlight. Some caused a tingling sensation in his fingertips, and he wondered how any half-competent investigator could have concluded that these odd rocks were nothing but "mostly harmless."
He couldn't wait to get back to school and take advantage of their chemistry lab.
The conversation on the return trip, aside from the lousy quality of the beer and chips, was predictably on the subject of the meteor rocks. The artist held some cockamamie theory that the green coloration was the result of some oxidation reaction upon atmospheric entry. (Sheesh, Lex thought, weren't even artists required to sit through junior high science? On the other hand, maybe he at least deserved points for still being able to pronounce "oxidation" after eight beers and half a bottle of cheap wine.) One author opined that the rocks were radioactive in the high frequencies. (Well, duh, Lex thought, and what was your degree in, typing?) The other author looked troubled and didn't contribute to the conversation for a long time. Lex finally tried to draw her out. "Something bothering you?"
"Yes," she admitted. "That little boy in the store. I don't like to see kids hurting like that. There was something wrong with him, and the parents obviously didn't know what."
You and me both, Lex thought, warming to the author and resolving to buy a few thousand of her previous books to donate to libraries and increase her name recognition for her latest. "Maybe it had something to do with the meteorites," he said lightly, to steer the conversation towards his own speculations but not give too much away.
"I don't know. Maybe." She was still clearly unhappy. "If the meteor rocks are radioactive, maybe they caused mutations in the germ cells among the local population, and all the children conceived around the time of the strike have some kind of genetic anomaly. Though that boy would have been more than a year old when the meteors hit. So maybe the radiation causes some kind of strange cancer in the young children. You'd think the Centers for Disease Control would have noticed, though, if there were a rash of cancers or any other weird diseases. I wonder if all the children in that town are sick like that."
If every child in that town can hit hard enough to damn near break a bone without even meaning to, Lex thought, then that town is going to be in for a lot more trouble than cancer when those kids hit puberty. He made a mental note to subscribe to the local paper.
"He recovered pretty quickly," Lex noted, keeping the strength issue to himself.
"Yeah. Not chronic pain or illness, then. But still." She looked out the window, brooding, then tapped the telephone connection in the limo that broadcast to the rest of the convoy. "What do the rest of you make of Smallville? Ordinary town trashed by a bunch of ordinary space rocks, or some place the Center for Disease Control should have quarantined? Cancer ward waiting to happen, or radioactive-meteorite mutant central?"
"I vote for the mutants!" a slightly-slurred voice came back immediately.
"No, space aliens!" an equally-inebriated voice contradicted. "Alien invasion force came down with the meteors and are all hiding out disguised as cow farmers!'
"You don't farm cows, you moron. And quit stealing from old Twilight Zones."
"Better than stealing from old Stephen Kings!"
"Better than stealing from Invasion of the Body Snatchers!"
"Better than stealing from Stepford Wives!"
"EWWW! Somebody just admitted to watching Stepford Wives!"
Lex took a gulp of beer to give himself a cover story for choking. "Stepford Wives," he gasped in explanation as a diversion, as the others pounded him unhelpfully on the back.
Mutants. Or, as the drunken fan artist had suggested, space aliens. A child stronger than any human had any right to be, and his parents knew it. A child who reacted to the slight tingling of the meteorites as if it were lethal agony.
A meteor storm of unidentified origin, far too small to have covered an alien invasion of a whole town -- he made a note to make public fun of the idiot who had suggested that -- but which might easily have covered for a few, small, ships.
Small ships, which might have held tiny young children. About Clark's age.
Maybe there were some "minor" business opportunities to be explored in Smallville. He'd have to ask dear old dad about that. Along with why some dirthand who should never even have crossed paths with the great Lionel Luthor held such a grudge against him. Discreetly, of course. Wouldn't do for daddy dearest to suspect any ulterior motive.
Lex leaned back and viewed the world through newly ambitious eyes. Science and science fiction conventions could be combined for business purposes after all. Space travel. Meteorites that glowed, and tingled. And, apparently, could hurt some of the children in this small, "ordinary" town. And who knows what else they might be capable of doing?
The possibility of alien children. Unlikely alternatives to explore, indeed. And the best part was, dear old dad would never have any idea how his minor "investment" in a weekend of science fiction fandom had paid off.
Lex raised his bottle, heedless of the looks that got him from people three times his age. He was a Luthor. "A toast to the unknown heroes, indeed," he commented, and everyone around him relaxed and began sharing new ideas and visions, not understanding just how dangerous he had become in embracing their dream.
"Step by step."
____________
Toast For Unknown Heroes lyrics: Leslie Fish (c) 1976; assigned to Random Factors Tune: (verse) Bonnie Ship the Diamond (trad.) (chorus) Step By Step (United Mine Workers)
A man is walking on the moon, with his eyes turn up toward space. And the bright blue world that watches him reflected on his face. The whole world sees that hero there, and the module crew also, But few can see the guiding team that guards him from below.
Step by step, the longest march can be won, can be won. Many stones can form an arch, singly none, singly none. And, together, what we will can be accomplished still. Many drops can turn a mill, singly none, singly none.
Here's a health to the man who walks the moon, and the module crew above. And the team that watches them from the sky with worry, joy and love. To all who blazed the sky-trail, come raise your glasses 'round, And a health to the unknown heroes, too, who never left the ground.
Step by step, the longest march can be won, can be won. Many stones can form an arch, singly none, singly none. And together what we will can be accomplished still. Many drops can turn a mill, singly none, singly none.
Here's a health to the ship's designers, and the welders of her seams, And all who man the radar-scan to watch our dawning dreams. For all the unknown heroes, sing out to every shore: "What makes one step a giant leap is all the steps before!"
Step by step, the longest march can be won, can be won. Many stones can form an arch, singly none, singly none. And together what we will can be accomplished still. Many drops can turn a mill, singly none. Singly none....
No spoilers, no extra characters, and I don't own nothin'. Sue me, and all you'll get is the car that even the insurance company totaled out, a five-year-old toothbrush, and a bag of cat food.
"Lex. A science fiction convention?"
At twelve, Lex was already skilled in the art of cool stubbornness and misdirection. He waved a negligent hand. "New ideas, father. Possible social contacts," a practiced sneer, "Unlikely, I know, but it's an insignificant investment of time and money. You yourself have always advocated exploring," a lift of an eyebrow, "Unlikely alternatives."
Though he wasn't about to admit it, Lionel was both proud of and amazed by his son. The boy had mastered the power of being a Luthor incredibly quickly, after that disastrous visit to Smallville. It was as if the meteor strike that had nearly killed him had, indeed, made him stronger. That he had also become careless and arrogant was something Lionel shrugged off as precocious incipient teenage rebellion, to be both expected and outgrown.
And to be honest, Lionel would far rather Lex be at some gauche public spectacle like a science fiction convention, with borderline schizophrenics dressed up in elaborate costumes and dirty socks, than at the underground clubs where Luthor money had bought a seriously illegal violation of the age rules, and an even more seriously illegal experimentation with controlled substances. Lex had dismissed his use of cocaine as "not very impressive." Lionel didn't even want to imagine what he had already found that was more "impressive."
Lex kept his cool blue-gray eyes on his father, gaging his reaction, looking for a moment to exploit. The lesson of looking for chinks in the opponent's armor had already been beaten into him, and he knew with no uncertainty that his wit was both his only weapon and defense. Truth to tell, he wanted desperately to go hang out with the self-professed geeks, to be around people who valued intellect and didn't care what you looked like. Being a scrawny bald freak would be just another costume. Automatically having a snarky comeback at the tip of your tongue was applauded in science fiction fandom. It was a place where he could fit in.
What he would never, ever tell his father was that the only thing he found more boring than his father's business life and obsession with money and power was the drugs and the losers who resorted to them, that the ruthlessness and false glitter and being able to buy whatever crap you wanted rather than having to work for it, no matter how convenient it was, held no real attraction for him. Lionel seemed to expect him to be a problem case. Lionel Luthor would never have stood for a son who was happy being around the fringes of society who thought reading and writing and strangeness and dreams was the definition of fun.
"Very well," Lionel said with a bored sigh. "So long as you take a chauffeur and bodyguard. And please, nothing that will make the front page of the Inquisitor this time."
Lex froze his automatic frown. "I doubt that I'll be in any danger from Klingons, dad," he said neutrally. "Is the bodyguard absolutely necessary? That might make the front page of the Inquisitor all on its own. 'Heir guarded at sci-fi con.' Hardly unobtrusive."
Lionel considered his heir. The boy was not nearly as hard to read as he thought he was, but then, he was only twelve. Lionel doubted he himself had been that good at that age.
Lionel flicked his fingers in a dismissive wave. "Just the chauffeur, then. He can stay in the car. Carry an emergency button as well as your phone."
Lex smiled thinly to disguise the joy inside. "Of course."
The Metropolis Area Science Fiction Convention ("WorldCon bid for 2020!") boasted five author guests of honor, two pro and seven fan artist guests of honor, three con suites, a dealer's room the size of an insurance sales convention ballroom, six tracks of panels including one devoted entirely to hard science, an ongoing hallway costume competition, and a formal costume competition slated to last six hours which would probably last ten. Lex was in heaven. He dressed desultorily as a Doctor Who with a bad wig, which made him about as noticeable as the fragments of corn chips on the con suite floor. He loved every minute of it.
The hard-science panels included the usual on future space vehicles, and Lex listened intently and with growing disbelief to their unrealistic plans. Didn't any of these people have a clue about business? There were the space buffs with their long-range projections (a good way to lose a billion dollars in a hurry, Lex thought), and the bottom-line managers sneering at the cost of research and development (and where would YOU be without rural electricity, Lex sneered back, but quietly). Space, the final frontier, was looking more and more like space, the way to make enemies out of damn near everyone. Sounded like his cup of tea.
There was an all-day filksing that Lex made the mistake of wandering in to before noon. Some well-known songwriters and singers were passing around a bottle of Tullimore Dew while refining the phrases to "Toast for the Unknown Heroes," at ten in the morning.
"Here's a health to the man who walks the moon, and the module crew above. And the team that watches from their sky with worry, joy and love. To all who blazed the sky-trail, come raise your glasses 'round, And a health to the unknown heroes, too, who never left the ground."
Of course, considering that they hadn't yet gone to sleep from the day before, this was not exactly scandalous. But having Emily shove a bottle into his hand and demand that he sing along would have made the Inquisitor's front page for certain, if the filksingers would actually have allowed anyone with a camera into the room. (Frank had been known to hit unwelcome intruders with his twelve-string guitar.) Lex raised the bottle in a toast and joined in, his changing tenor practically unnoticed between very drunk pros and thoroughly wasted rank amateurs. Lex made a note to buy certain tapes and have other burned.
There was a panel on the meteor strike from a few years back that he couldn't help but sit in on, wishing he could have convinced them to allow a twelve-year-old on the panel. "Hey, I was there, practically at ground zero. You want a first-hand account?" He kept his mouth shut. Drawing attention to himself that way would have smacked of self-pity.
The dealer's room was selling meteor fragments set in some fairly artistic pieces. He bought some as souvenirs. The heavy ring was quite adult-looking, though he didn't normally go in for jewelry. The dragon-and-sorcerer piece, though, glittering with green globes and flames and lightning, would have to stay hidden in his room. Not that Lionel would have minded the thousand-dollar price tag (which wasn't bad, for high-quality art, in fact, it would probably appreciate in value), but the subject matter would have drawn a dismissive comment.
Cursory conversation with the artist as he examined the pieces revealed that the meteor fragments were, in fact, the cheapest part of the work. Despite their attractive emerald coloring, they were as common as any other rock around the area of the strike, and as easy to work with. Some shattered along a crystalline line, some could actually be molded under heat. Hardly the nickel-iron you expected of most meteorites, but not the hardness of a glassine structure either.
A few hours later, after several visits to the con suites (there was a sign posted that said "No alcohol served to minors," but no enforcement after Lex tossed a couple of fifties into the collection jar), and a few beers, and some fascinating round-robin conversations with the authors, the subject of the meteorites so close by came up again. In between stories about fake moon rocks ("they're probably still trying to sell those things on e-bay!") and the possible indication of life in the rocks from Mars ("And how do they know they're from Mars and not the asteroid belt?"), a plot was hatched to drive over to the strike site and check it out for themselves. Lex found his limo and chauffeur volunteered as part of the convoy. He agreed, on the condition that no one tell the chauffeur about the Tullimore Dew.
Noon the next day found them all hung over and wondering what the hell they were doing. But the costume contest had been a drag, and the dead-dog party wasn't for half a day yet, so about half of the previous night's enthusiasts set out for Smallville to look for meteors.
Lex, with the luxury of kicking back in his limo with two authors and an artist and the con organizer (who had recognized him early on, but earned Lex's appreciation by saying nothing until last night), needled the others into speculations about the meteor storm. Why so many at once? Why not more damage? Where had they come from? The adults, not used to such pointed and insightful questions from a pre-teen, were torn between being cautious and letting their imaginations roam free. Their own speculative natures finally took precedence.
Lex was enjoying the hell out of himself. He could be a Luthor AND a geek at the same time. It was exhilarating.
They pulled up to something that looked suspiciously like a farm feed store a few hours later, when Lex decreed by cell phone that refreshments and a bathroom break were in order before the meteorite hunt. The limo had a well stocked supply of the former, but unless a Luthor wanted to be seen in an RV (not a bad idea after all, that, Lex reflected), the latter required a fixed facility. The rest of the convoy, not so well equipped, readily agreed.
The general store was crowded. Lex was surprised. Wasn't it called SMALLville? And he got another shock a few minutes later when a woman came over to them and shyly addressed one of the authors by name, saying how much she had enjoyed his latest (by name), and asking if he were planning a sequel to one of his earlier ones (by name). A Smallville farm wife (okay, he was just assuming she was a farm wife, but in those clothes, a pretty safe bet) who read science fiction. Lex felt as if he had stepped into another dimension.
A small boy, maybe six or so, came running up to his mother, declaring that daddy-has-everything-and-it's-time-to-go-and-who-are-these-people? His chatter broke off suddenly as he went pale, gasped, and fell to his knees with a choked cry of terrified pain that made Lex shudder all the way through. He had a visceral aversion to seeing little children being hurt.
"Clark?" The woman knelt beside her son, obviously concerned, but curiously, not touching him. "What is it? What's wrong?" The child doubled over, gagging, sobbing.
The science fiction crowd stood around them, frozen. Lex, not too old to remember a mother's comfort, knelt beside the child and tried to put an arm around him. Shock traveled up his arm when both the woman and the child shoved him away -- the woman in obvious alarm, as if she thought he were a child molester or something, but the child with an abrupt scream and a blow that left his arm numb from bicep to fingertips. If the woman hadn't moved him mostly out of the way in time, the impact would have broken his forearm.
Lex looked down at the damaged arm. He was a Luthor, he did not yell or cry or make useless threats. Especially at a child or a farm wife. Or in front of famous authors and artists and people who thought strangeness was an adventure to be embraced.
But as a Luthor, he wondered the hell how a kid less than half his age, and in obvious distress, had managed to hit him -- not, apparently, out of any deliberate desire to cause harm -- hard enough to leave what he knew, from experience, was going to be a five-color bruise.
He hadn't been hit that hard since he'd stolen, and wrecked, the Lamborghini.
His eyes traveled to the numb fingers. The new green-stone ring caught his eye, its attractive glitter for some reason, suddenly, malevolent. A piece of a meteor. A piece of the meteors that had, in fact, nearly killed him, put him in the hospital, cost him his hair, made him a freak. Had done a few other things to him, he suspected, since he hadn't had an asthma attack or even a cold in years, and had developed an uncanny ability to keep up with dear old dad (though that was more likely due to learning to out-insult his peers while staying calm).
Could it, this piece of rock from somewhere unknown, made of who knew what, be the cause somehow? Everyone had been so careful with the moon rocks, they had been kept hermetically sealed and under guard for years. And they had turned out to be basically no more than charcoal. The meteors, though, had attracted surprisingly little investigation or analysis after a first diagnosis of "mostly harmless" (thank you so much, Doug Adams, Lex thought sarcastically), and practically nothing was known about them (one more black mark against NASA; Lex resolved to have some investigations opened into government agencies with more than just an eye to starting his own launch company). And yet here he was, here they all were, playing with rocks from outer space.
He stood up and backed away, eyes narrowing, Luthor training fully engaged. The small child collapsed, panting, but the tension of pain was obviously ebbing away.
Luthors never, ever missed a bet, or gave away an advantage. Lex backed off further, carefully, watching the child as closely as he dared without being caught at it, and took off the ring made with its rock from outer space. Pure Luthor science-geek speculation. He left it in a trash can with the rotting produce. He could always have it retrieved later if he wanted.
He moved toward the sobbing child again, slowly, prepared to back up again if his guess was off base. The boy didn't react. Lex knelt down beside him again, and touched him tentatively, all too aware now from the spreading hematoma why the boy's mother had tried to push him out of the way. He'd heard of panic strength before, but.... "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just a costume, see?" He took off the god-awful hat he'd adopted for his hall costume (and for protection against the summer sun), shooting a hard grin at his companions and daring them to make something of the bald twelve-year-old with the limousine.
"We're playing a game. Pretending to be someone we're not. It's nothing to be afraid of." Though obviously, Lex saw in both the woman's sharp and swiftly concealed change of expression, and the dawning realization on the faces of his companions, the little boy certainly did have something to be afraid of, and that it had something to do with pretending to be something you weren't. Something that had to do with the meteorites, though so far Lex was pretty sure he was the only one who had figured that part out yet, because of the ring.
The boy's mother had moved tentatively to hold her son closer as a rangy man came storming up. "I was loading the truck when I heard Clark scream. What the hell happened?"
"I don't know, Jonathan." The boy moved into her arms and clutched her, still sniffling, and struggling unevenly for breath. Like someone who had just been released from torture, Lex thought, remembering some of the "other" movies from dear old dad's library.
The woman only flinched a little bit under her son's grip, as if trying to conceal the impression that something had injured her (like a child who could break someone's bones by accident?), but Lex caught it anyway. "Clark had another attack. He seems to be okay now." Her gaze brushed across Lex's over the boy's head, far too worried for a mother whose child had just had a bout of, oh, for example, asthma or colic. Lex hooded his eyes.
The rangy man -- Jonathan -- glared at the strangers, and then turned an especially suspicious look on Lex. "Who are you, and what do you have to do with this?"
"Jonathan!" the woman said sharply. "They're just visiting. They're hardly to blame!" Lex turned around to give a shrug of his eyebrows to his -- heh, trust a Luthor to consider famous authors and scientists as guests of a twelve-year-old -- okay, companions, and sent an especially raised eyebrow at the author the woman had recognized earlier.
The man moved forward and introduced himself with the smoothness of someone used to public appearances. He gave a brief introduction (with qualifications) of the rest of them, saving Lex for last. Lex did not miss the open hostility that flared in Jonathan's eyes at the name. He returned the gaze coolly. Something to ask his father about, no doubt.
"We're here from a -- meeting -- in Metropolis, to take a look at the meteorite sites," the author finished, smiling with a certain displeasure at their reception. "But if it's too much trouble for you, we'll be heading back now. Sorry to bother you."
Jonathan sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his wife and son, and at Lex, who was still crouching quietly on the sick child's other side. He scowled, but shook his head and forced the expression away. "No, my apologies. That was unfair of me." He gave them an all-too-obviously practiced smile. "Anyone in town can tell you I have a temper. Kinda famous for it, in fact. And we worry a lot about Clark. He's -- special to us. We just don't like seeing him hurt. But I didn't mean to be rude."
"I assure you, any parent understands that. Most of us have children too."
Jonathan's obviously false smile unexpectedly slid over into a real one, as if he'd simply changed the subject in his own head. Lex blinked. That would be an interesting trick to learn. "Is there anything I, we, can help you with? We don't have a lot to offer here. Small town, you know, but we don't want to give you -- or any strangers -- a bad impression."
"As I said, we have a professional interest in the meteorites. Perhaps you could direct us to any sites of interest? Impact areas, or catalogued collections?"
Jonathan's eyes -- and the woman's, Lex was the only one to note, being so close to her -- went flat, and withdrawn. The Luthor in him recognized an amateur poker player with something to hide. "Pretty much anywhere," Jonathan said neutrally, smile going false and small again. "They're all over the place. But not many people want to play tour guide. It was a bad time for the town. We lost friends in the meteor storm. There was a lot of -- damage."
"...Oh." The science fiction fans looked at each other with slightly abashed uneasiness. They had thought of a meteor fall as an adventure, something to discuss avidly over beers. They hadn't considered that, for the residents, it would have been a deadly disaster that a lot of people would still really rather not be interviewed about. "I'm sorry."
The rangy farmer shrugged stoically. "Things happen. Life goes on. You deal with it or you don't." The authors went rigid in their attempt to keep from laughing out loud. If they had written anything like that, they would have been thrown out of their editor's office.
Lex was still watching, with trained diffidence, the young boy's tear-stained face. He did indeed seem to be perfectly fine now, though he was still hiding against his mother. Hardly unusual. Lex remembered doing that himself, a long time ago. He shoved that old unwanted memory back into its lockbox. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked quietly.
The youngster nodded. "Just keep it away," he mumbled.
"Keep what away?" When the boy hitched and tightened his grip on his mother (who gasped and then bit her lip, Lex noticed, as if she'd been hurt and was trying hard not to show it), Lex backed away a little. "You mean the ring? The green stone? The meteorite?"
Terror flashed across his face, and he nodded once before hiding his face again.
Lex reached over and smoothed the sweaty hair back from the child's forehead. He was suddenly struck with a powerful sense of deja vu, only backwards. Backwards in time, rather than forward. A child touching his head reassuringly, rather than him touching....
...Clark?
The day the meteors came down....
Oh, hell. He had definitely been way too long around the science fiction convention. Lex Luthor, boy genius, heir to Luther Corp, indulging in wacko fantasies about a little boy that he sort-of remembered in his deepest feverish nightmares, all mixed up with the meteor storm, the horror and screams and hospital and pain and.... Stop it.
Ridiculous idea. That the little boy in front of him, who had apparently collapsed in helpless agony from the near touch of a half-ounce of those same meteors, who was strong enough to nearly break his arm trying to push away something because it hurt, was the same one who had reached out and gently stroked his head. The day the meteors came down.
He'd be just about the right age, too.... Stop it.
Jonathan looked over at Lex, and his eyes went hard again. Definitely something going on that he would have to worm out of dear old dad, Lex thought.
"The ones that hit the town were all carted off to the landfill," he said, with obvious bitter relish. "Your youngster there might like to go crawling through the trash for them."
Lex smirked. If that was supposed to insult him, Jonathan didn't know the world of Luthors very well. He'd gotten far worse from the other ten-year-olds at boarding school years ago. "I might, at that," he said mildly, standing and brushing off his hideous Doctor Who slacks. "What do you say, fellow adventurers? Shall we go trash-diving?"
One of the authors laughed nervously, but the rest of them sent up an enthusiastic chorus of agreement. It couldn't be any worse than the con suite's stale cheese popcorn, anyway, declared the con organizer. The artist, not to be outdone, went over to the trash can and dug through the rotting vegetables. "Dunno why you threw your ring away, but if you don't want it, I'll take it." He shook most of the crud off and put it on, admiring it. "Green's not my favorite color, but hey, maybe I could trade it for a bottle at the dead-dog party."
Lex backed up fast, "accidentally" bumping into the artist. "Fine, you can have it. I was getting tired of it anyway." Now there was a Luthorism for you. Spoiled bored little rich kid. Nobody would ever know that his motive was to keep his dear old dad from asking questions about the peculiar stone. "So let's get moving already, or we'll miss the dead-dog."
General agreement with that, and the resupplied and refreshed fans trooped out. Lex's chauffeur kept a wooden face as he was directed to restock the limo's liquids and help carry whatever the other fans wanted (rank hath its privileges, Lex smirked; the chauffeur had drawn this particular duty for showing up late and drunk for dear old dad one morning). Lex himself stayed where he was long enough to make sure the artist had to detour around him to get to the door, rather than pass by the woman and child in front of them. The artist, still admiring his new ring, and still more than slightly hung over, didn't notice enough to care.
Lex, his gaze ostensibly roaming between his companions and Jonathan's hostile glare, was in fact reserving most of his covert attention for Clark. The little boy's wide, fearful eyes followed the artist. Specifically, the artist's hand with its new ring.
Lex brought up the rear of what he was already mentally calling his entourage, but paused five steps past the family tableau. "And, Jonathan," he said in his most casual Luthor voice -- he didn't use the first name to annoy the older man on purpose, but asking for the last name would have been making a concession, and besides, a little annoyance here was just tit for tat -- "If I were you, I'd keep Clark away from the landfill."
The farmer (an easy enough assumption, from the clothes, though Lex wondered what assumptions Smallvillians had made of his Doctor Who outfit), blinked, then glared, as if to say, who are you to tell me what to do about my son? Lex quirked his lips to keep from sighing. They still didn't get it? Maybe the meteors had affected their minds.
"And he probably shouldn't play around any of the other meteor strike sites, either," he added over his shoulder, with a negligent wave as he strolled out the door.
Jonathan and Martha stared after him for a long minute, then at each other, then finally down at Clark, who was still huddled in Martha's arms. "The meteorites...?"
"Not here. Let's go." Jonathan picked up his adopted son, bracing himself for the bone-cracking strength of the arms flung around his neck. Clark was learning to be careful, but he was also getting stronger by the week. Once in the truck, Clark settled happily and securely between them, away from prying eyes and ears, he shook his head. "But the meteors came down with Clark. How could they be what's causing his attacks?"
"I'm not an expert on rocks from outer space, Jonathan. But I've noticed that he doesn't go near the storm cellar." They'd collected the rocks that had been near his ship and hidden them all together, for fear that the rocks might have traces of something that would give away something about the ship. In retrospect, that was kind of stupid, since the meteorites really were all over the place, and a hole plowed into the ground without any rocks near it was more suspicious than a hole without any, but it was too late to put them back, and the weather was doing a fair job of covering up the holes by now anyway.
"We told him not to." Jonathan looked down at his son. "You don't go places when we tell you to stay away from them, right? You're a good boy."
Martha snorted. When they'd told Clark not to climb the rotten tree in the orchard, that was the very next thing he did. Good thing he was tougher than the ground.
Clark squirmed and looked down. "Hurts," he whispered.
The Kents exchanged a look that was broken only when Jonathan swerved off the road and had to face forward again. "The storm cellar hurts you?" Martha prompted carefully.
Clark seemed to fold in on himself, hugging his arms close. "...Yes."
"Why didn't you tell us, son?"
Clark shivered. "Not supposed to hurt. Not supposed to tell."
Jonathan was puzzled, but Martha understood. "All your fault, stubborn old man. You and your macho, never-admit-to-being-hurt. He's trying to imitate you. Plus what we've had to say about keeping secrets. Clark, you don't have to keep secrets from us. Only from other people. We're your parents, we're supposed to protect you. When something hurts you, or something scares you, we need to know." Because we probably can't even imagine what.
"Okay." Clark hesitated, as if trying to think it out. "The green rocks hurt."
"Damnation," Jonathan swore softly.
"Jonathan!" Martha put a protective hand around Clark's small shoulders. "I'm sorry, honey. We didn't know. We'll get rid of the green rocks."
"The worst thing is," Jonathan growled, "It took a Luthor to figure it out. And I could swear that I would never in my life see a Luthor dressed like a Doctor Who."
Lex and his entourage pulled up to the Smallville town dump with an enthusiasm that had been bolstered by Lex's purchase of pretty much the entire store's stock of beer. The receiving workers gave the limo a disbelieving look, and the rest of the still half-in-costume group an even more disbelieving look, but shrugged and let it pass. They'd seen stranger things, especially since the meteors came down. The eight-legged raccoon with the opposable thumb on each paw only let them see it because it knew they weren't any danger to it.
Two hours and six cases of beer later, the fans declared themselves well satisfied with the haul of meteor rocks, and various other treasures uncovered in the course of their personal recycling quest. ("What the hell do you want with six burned-out microwaves?" Slightly slurred. "Th' big magnets, a' course." Rather more than slightly slurred.)
Lex himself had acquired only a few choice specimens, since he figured that would be all he could hide from dear old dad. As the artist had said, some were crystalline, some more metallic. Some glittered, some glowed bright enough to see even in direct sunlight. Some caused a tingling sensation in his fingertips, and he wondered how any half-competent investigator could have concluded that these odd rocks were nothing but "mostly harmless."
He couldn't wait to get back to school and take advantage of their chemistry lab.
The conversation on the return trip, aside from the lousy quality of the beer and chips, was predictably on the subject of the meteor rocks. The artist held some cockamamie theory that the green coloration was the result of some oxidation reaction upon atmospheric entry. (Sheesh, Lex thought, weren't even artists required to sit through junior high science? On the other hand, maybe he at least deserved points for still being able to pronounce "oxidation" after eight beers and half a bottle of cheap wine.) One author opined that the rocks were radioactive in the high frequencies. (Well, duh, Lex thought, and what was your degree in, typing?) The other author looked troubled and didn't contribute to the conversation for a long time. Lex finally tried to draw her out. "Something bothering you?"
"Yes," she admitted. "That little boy in the store. I don't like to see kids hurting like that. There was something wrong with him, and the parents obviously didn't know what."
You and me both, Lex thought, warming to the author and resolving to buy a few thousand of her previous books to donate to libraries and increase her name recognition for her latest. "Maybe it had something to do with the meteorites," he said lightly, to steer the conversation towards his own speculations but not give too much away.
"I don't know. Maybe." She was still clearly unhappy. "If the meteor rocks are radioactive, maybe they caused mutations in the germ cells among the local population, and all the children conceived around the time of the strike have some kind of genetic anomaly. Though that boy would have been more than a year old when the meteors hit. So maybe the radiation causes some kind of strange cancer in the young children. You'd think the Centers for Disease Control would have noticed, though, if there were a rash of cancers or any other weird diseases. I wonder if all the children in that town are sick like that."
If every child in that town can hit hard enough to damn near break a bone without even meaning to, Lex thought, then that town is going to be in for a lot more trouble than cancer when those kids hit puberty. He made a mental note to subscribe to the local paper.
"He recovered pretty quickly," Lex noted, keeping the strength issue to himself.
"Yeah. Not chronic pain or illness, then. But still." She looked out the window, brooding, then tapped the telephone connection in the limo that broadcast to the rest of the convoy. "What do the rest of you make of Smallville? Ordinary town trashed by a bunch of ordinary space rocks, or some place the Center for Disease Control should have quarantined? Cancer ward waiting to happen, or radioactive-meteorite mutant central?"
"I vote for the mutants!" a slightly-slurred voice came back immediately.
"No, space aliens!" an equally-inebriated voice contradicted. "Alien invasion force came down with the meteors and are all hiding out disguised as cow farmers!'
"You don't farm cows, you moron. And quit stealing from old Twilight Zones."
"Better than stealing from old Stephen Kings!"
"Better than stealing from Invasion of the Body Snatchers!"
"Better than stealing from Stepford Wives!"
"EWWW! Somebody just admitted to watching Stepford Wives!"
Lex took a gulp of beer to give himself a cover story for choking. "Stepford Wives," he gasped in explanation as a diversion, as the others pounded him unhelpfully on the back.
Mutants. Or, as the drunken fan artist had suggested, space aliens. A child stronger than any human had any right to be, and his parents knew it. A child who reacted to the slight tingling of the meteorites as if it were lethal agony.
A meteor storm of unidentified origin, far too small to have covered an alien invasion of a whole town -- he made a note to make public fun of the idiot who had suggested that -- but which might easily have covered for a few, small, ships.
Small ships, which might have held tiny young children. About Clark's age.
Maybe there were some "minor" business opportunities to be explored in Smallville. He'd have to ask dear old dad about that. Along with why some dirthand who should never even have crossed paths with the great Lionel Luthor held such a grudge against him. Discreetly, of course. Wouldn't do for daddy dearest to suspect any ulterior motive.
Lex leaned back and viewed the world through newly ambitious eyes. Science and science fiction conventions could be combined for business purposes after all. Space travel. Meteorites that glowed, and tingled. And, apparently, could hurt some of the children in this small, "ordinary" town. And who knows what else they might be capable of doing?
The possibility of alien children. Unlikely alternatives to explore, indeed. And the best part was, dear old dad would never have any idea how his minor "investment" in a weekend of science fiction fandom had paid off.
Lex raised his bottle, heedless of the looks that got him from people three times his age. He was a Luthor. "A toast to the unknown heroes, indeed," he commented, and everyone around him relaxed and began sharing new ideas and visions, not understanding just how dangerous he had become in embracing their dream.
"Step by step."
____________
Toast For Unknown Heroes lyrics: Leslie Fish (c) 1976; assigned to Random Factors Tune: (verse) Bonnie Ship the Diamond (trad.) (chorus) Step By Step (United Mine Workers)
A man is walking on the moon, with his eyes turn up toward space. And the bright blue world that watches him reflected on his face. The whole world sees that hero there, and the module crew also, But few can see the guiding team that guards him from below.
Step by step, the longest march can be won, can be won. Many stones can form an arch, singly none, singly none. And, together, what we will can be accomplished still. Many drops can turn a mill, singly none, singly none.
Here's a health to the man who walks the moon, and the module crew above. And the team that watches them from the sky with worry, joy and love. To all who blazed the sky-trail, come raise your glasses 'round, And a health to the unknown heroes, too, who never left the ground.
Step by step, the longest march can be won, can be won. Many stones can form an arch, singly none, singly none. And together what we will can be accomplished still. Many drops can turn a mill, singly none, singly none.
Here's a health to the ship's designers, and the welders of her seams, And all who man the radar-scan to watch our dawning dreams. For all the unknown heroes, sing out to every shore: "What makes one step a giant leap is all the steps before!"
Step by step, the longest march can be won, can be won. Many stones can form an arch, singly none, singly none. And together what we will can be accomplished still. Many drops can turn a mill, singly none. Singly none....