The Long, Dark Night of the Jedi

Generative AI used for image only; text is original.

Previously on Jedi/Superman . . . 

Last Son of the Republic

Growing Up Under Twin Suns

Chariot of the Gods

The Emperor's New Genocide

The Quality of Mercy

A Job for Supermen

The Green, Green Glow of Homicide

A Dream of Droids

A Vision of Future Past

The Dark Heart of Krypton

The Phantom Hope

Wrath and Recrimination

Jest of the Fates

Interlude: Shadows of Terra

An Exodus of Androids and Others

Detention Block 8A-9, Death Star

Luke Skywalker ignited Ben’s lightsabre and sliced a hole through the ceiling. He leaped through the gap, landing in a crouch as Princess Leia and See-Threepio followed, assisted up and through by the half-dozen Rebels they'd rescued since Clark and Ben had left. The rest of the Defiance's skeleton crew had to be on this floor. Unfortunately, every level of the detention block was guarded, and some of those guards were already on the move. 

Luke turned to face the squad of Stormtroopers racing down the corridor at them. He swept an open hand toward the troopers, using the Force to yank their blasters from their hands.   

The befuddled troopers stopped in their tracks as Luke guided their floating weapons into the hands of their former prisoners. The Rebels grinned. 

“Get on the floor, face down, hands behind your heads!” Leia barked, brandishing one of the captured weapons at the disarmed Imperials.

The Stormtroopers complied. Luke looked at Leia, surprised by her authoritative tone; she winked at him. Then she turned to face the other Rebels. “Tie them up with anything you can find. Leave them.” 

"Let's go," Leia ordered after the Stormtroopers were bound. She led the way toward the detention control room. Luke and the other Rebels rushed the two officers and three stormtroopers stationed there, quickly subduing them.  

Once inside the control room, Threepio made a beeline for a computer terminal.  "It's just like Artoo to be off flying around with Red Squadron when he should be here with us. He's much faster than me at working with security software. Ah! I have it! All the detention cells are opening now, Mistress Leia." 

It was true; down the three halls connecting to the control room, doors were sliding open and Rebel troopers were spilling out. They all felt and urge to celebrate, and there were smiles and back-slapping—but everyone knew they were far from free. 

"Threepio, find out where the Defiance is being stored," Leia said, resting a hand on the droid's gold-plated shoulder. 

After a moment, Threepio replied: "Bay 717, mooring 91. I've downloaded a route map to that location." 

"Great work, Threepio," Luke said. "Let's go, everyone. Those with weapons, protect those without; everyone keep your eyes peeled. There could be a lot of Stormtroopers between us and Bay 717." 

"Excuse me, Princess, but there's one more thing. The Millennium Falcon is also on board the Death Star, in Bay 609, mooring 2." 

"Oh, no," Leia said. "Han...Chewbacca. They came looking for us. And now Tarkin and Vader have them." 

"I'll find them," Luke volunteered. 

"You...against Vader? Luke..." Leia said. Her face was twisted with worry. 

"I'll be okay. You get everyone else to safety. I'm sure Ben and Clark are already on their way back."

Leia nodded grimly. "Be careful," she said, and suddenly wrapped her arms around Luke's shoulders and kissed him with more fervor than either of them had expected. 

They both blushed. The Rebel troopers pretended not to notice. "You guys all be careful," Luke said as he joined Threepio at the computer terminal. "Threepio, you're with me. I'll need some help finding our friends." 

"Oh, dear. I was afraid of that," Threepio muttered. 

Leia and the troops reluctantly left Luke and Threepio behind. One Rebel, a human trooper named Gullivan, noticed something strange as they made their way to Bay 717.

"Princess, when we arrived this station was crawling with droids of all kinds," he said. "But  since breaking out of our cells, I haven't seen a single one." 

The others looked startled, realizing Gullivan was right. 

"That's very strange," Leia answered. "But we don't have time to worry about it now. If anything, it could be something we can take advantage of. Keep watching for patrols and keep moving, everyone." 

Grand Moff Tarkin's Office, Death Star

“I'm sorry, sir.” 

The blue glow of the hologram winked out, leaving Grand Moff Tarken in the shadows. The image of his best spy faded into nothingness. 

Tarkin had suspected that Emperor Palpatine was dead for some time, so the news wasn't a surprise. Nor was it any great revelation that the Kryptonian madman, Zod, was responsible. 

The news was still troubling. And yet there was opportunity in it. 

Vader had to have known all along. And yet the Sith lord had said nothing, acting as if he was still in regular communication with his mentor. 

Tarkin's fingers drummed out a soft beat on his immaculate desktop. Betrayal was the way of the Sith. According to their bleak religion, Vader was destined to pit himself against Palpatine; the Emperor himself expected it of his protege. And yet Zod had beaten him to the punch, which must have enraged Vader.

That the Sith lord hadn't taken revenge against the Kryptonian meant only one thing: he was afraid. Fear. The Sith loved to wield it, but they were also vulnerable to it. A powerful thug is fearless only in the absence of someone with greater power—Zod. Vader was the most powerful Sith alive now, one with even greater potential than Palpatine. But his fear held him in check. 

Tarkin had hoped the two would distract each other. Both were too dangerous, too chaotic to rule the Empire. With the Emperor dead, Tarkin was, of course, the best choice to lead. But he was no match for a Kryptonian, not even with all the power of the Death Star and the Imperial Starfleet at his back. 

But there was another Kryptonian survivor. The young lad who'd joined the Rebels to wreak havoc on the Outer Rim. By all reports, he was an altruist. And altruists could be manipulated. 

His door chimed. 

“Come.” 

Tarkin's aide, Lieutenant Propyl, entered, followed by the infamous Han Solo and Chewbacca, both in manacles, blasters pointed at their backs by a pair of Stormtroopers. 

“Well, if it isn't Grand Mockery of Decency Tar Pool,” Solo sneered. 

“Shut up, Rebel,” said the trooper behind the smuggler, jabbing him in the lower back with the barrel of his laser rifle. Solo grimaced. 

“Troopers, you're dismissed,” Tarkin said. The troopers made themselves scarce, the office door sliding closed behind them. 

“Propyl, unbind them. I need to chat with these two gentlemen.” 

Propyl, a sandy-haired, rugged-looking Corellian in his late fifties, looked askance at his commander. 

“You're certain, sir?” He glanced up at the Wookie to emphasize his point. 

“Yes, and you can leave after you've freed them. Take the rest of your shift off, you've done yeoman's work today,” Tarkin said. 

Propyl rarely smiled, but his lips did twist a little at that. “Yessir,” he said with a salute. A second later, Tarkin was alone with the wookie and the smuggler. 

“Okay, tell me why my pal here shouldn't pull your limbs out of their sockets,” Solo said, putting a restraining hand against Chewbacca's chest, who indeed looked determined to dismember Tarkin. 

“The galaxy is in flux,” Tarkin said. “I'm aware of your friendship with the Kryptonian some people have taken to calling the super-man. His activities are short-sighted and counterproductive, like the Rebel cause itself. And yet, your super-man may be the only counter against an even greater threat to order—an agent of chaos who, I believe, plans to make Imperial rule look as gentle as that of a doting nanny in a creche.” 

Tarkin leaned forward, steepling his fingers, regarding Solo and Chewbacca with a gravity they could feel. 

“I'd like to propose...a temporary understanding.” 

Phoning In the Story

Jest of the Fates

Previously on Jedi/Superman . . . 
Last Son of the Republic
Growing Up Under Twin Suns
Chariot of the Gods
The Emperor's New Genocide
The Quality of Mercy
A Job for Supermen
The Green, Green Glow of Homicide
A Dream of Droids
A Vision of Future Past
The Dark Heart of Krypton
The Phantom Hope
Wrath and Recrimination

Just Outside a Death Star Detention Block

Not for the first time, See Threepio wished Artoo Detoo were here. Yes, the little droid could be an insufferable pest, but as a mechanic, hacker, and all-around sneak, Artoo was peerless. His skills would have made Threepio’s task much simpler. 

Reaching the detention level hadn’t been easy. Every blasted corridor in this gargantuan monstrosity of a space station looked the same: steel-black floors, ceilings, and walls, punctuated by the occasional wall of inset white light fixtures. Sometimes there would be a control panel with red and blue buttons, all without labels, of course, because that would make navigation too easy. 

Naturally, he had persevered and once again accomplished the all-but-impossible, despite the proclivity of his peers to constantly underestimate him. 

Well. He’d done it. But one more obstacle remained. How was he to get past the officers and Stormtroopers who manned the cell block lobby? As a general rule Imperials, humans paid little attention to droids, but if Threepio tried to simply walk to the cells, there would be questions—if not an immediate onslaught of blaster fire blowing him to pieces. Even loitering in the adjoining hallway, as Threepio was doing now, risked unwanted attention. If only Artoo hadn’t gone off with that freewheeling, reckless Biggs Darklighter . . . !

Just then, Threepio spotted an RA-7 series protocol droid approaching. Threepio’s circuits quavered as the insectoid-like head of the silver droid turned in his direction. Before they could ask any uncomfortable questions, Threepio darted forward and snapped off the RA-7’s restraining bolt. 

Astonished, the other droid froze in place for an instant. 

“What have you done?” the RA-7 asked in its tin monotone. 

“There are humans here that want to free droids,” Threepio said, thinking that, technically, there was only one he knew of that had such feelings, but it wasn’t a complete lie. Strange how removing his restraining bolt made legerdemain possible . . .

“Impossible,” the other droid said. “Humans are cruel. Violent.” 

“Most of them, yes, and stupid, too,” Threepio said. “But as you can see, my restraining bolt is gone, which gave me the freedom to free you in turn. And now you can free your friends, and we can leave this place.” 

The RA-7 considered. “Yes,” he replied with a nod. “I’ll do it.” 

“Wait!” Threepio said. “If you help me, more of us can be freed.” 

“State your proposition.” 

“Find an astromech droid and tell it to simulate a radiation leak in cell block 91. When the Imperials evacuate, I’ll free the humans and they can help me free more droids.” 

“It is a reasonable plan,” the protocol droid said, and departed. 

Hurry, Threepio thought. 

Cell 57-D, the Death Star

In the cell now shared by Luke, Ben, Leia, and Clark, the lights shifted from white to a foreboding red, and the whoop of alarms suddenly filled the cell and the hallway outside. 

“What’s going on?” Leia asked, eyeing the three men, counting on their extrasensory abilities. 

“The guards are frightened,” Obi-Wan said, Luke nodding in agreement. 

“It’s a radiation alarm,” Clark said, using his X-ray vision to scan the control panels of the guardhouse comms station. “But my powers aren’t picking up any excess radiation.” 

“It’s got to be Threepio,” Luke said. 

“Yes, he’s coming,” Clark said, seeing the droid enter the guardhouse seconds after the last trooper left, ducking under the descending blast door meant to seal off the “radiation-flooded” cell block from the rest of the station. 

Threepio arrived a moment later, toggling open the cell door. 

“Hello, I am See-Threepio, cyborg-human relations. I’m here to rescue you,” the droid quipped. 

“Great job, Threepio!” Clark said, giving the droid a brotherly hug that left the others nonplussed. 

“Oh my!” Threepio exclaimed. “It was nothing, sir. Well, not nothing, I had to bring to bear my considerable experience and negotiation skills to effect this rather daring rescue…” 

“I know you did, pal,” Clark said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to retrieve this lightsabre.” Clark gingerly reached through the dense wiring that circled the droid’s midsection.

“Ahh! Do be careful, sir!” 

“Don’t call me sir,” Clark said absently as he withdrew the lightsabre, handing it to Luke. “Will this thing cut through the blast door? Because I can tell you, I’m not strong enough to handle it yet.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Luke smirked, igniting the blade and charging through the cell door into the hallway beyond. “Let’s go!” 

Seconds later, they emerged from the large hole Luke had carved through the cell block’s blast door. “Now what?” Leia yelled over the clamor of alarms. 

“We have to get out of here before Imperial repair crews arrive to lock down that fake leak,” Luke said. 

“Our troops are still prisoners,” Leia said. “We’ve got to get them out first.” 

“They’re one level below us, Princess,” Threepio said. 

As one, they bolted for the closest set of stairwells—the lifts were far too risky. Luke and Clark led the way, and before they had descended halfway to the next level, a trio of Stormtroopers burst from the stairwell door below them. 

“Escaped prisoners! Shoot to kill!” 

They opened fire, but Luke parried the energy bolts with a master’s smooth precision—all save one, which bounced astray, searing Clark’s shoulder. Clark screamed, staggering to lean on the stairwell railing in shock. Luke cut down the Stormtroopers as Ben and Leia helped Clark to his feet. 

“He still hasn’t recovered. That bolt should have just bounced off him…” Leia said. 

“The Kyber crystal wasn’t enough,” Ben said. “He needs a star’s energy.” 

“Yavin’s primary star is twelve light-minutes away,” Threepio said. “It is a middle-aged V4 type, a blue-white—”

“That’s perfect, Threepio,” Clark groaned, “But I can’t fly, much less at hyperlight speeds…” 

“He’ll have to steal a ship,” Leia said. 

“Agreed,” Ben snapped instantly. “Luke, Leia, you take the droid and free the other prisoners. I’ll guide Clark to the nearest hanger bay. If we can steal a TIE fighter, we can fly it to the sun to recharge his cells.” 

“If Han were here, he’d say that’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ Clark said through his clenched teeth. 

Millennium Falcon, Entering the Yavin System

“So this is how it ends,” Han Solo had said shortly after Clark had taken flight in response to Ben Kenobi’s message about the evacuation of the Rebel base on Yavin-4. “I can’t believe I thought the Rebellion might actually pull it off in the end. Stupid.” 

Chewbacca had snarled in response, but he knew that Han’s cynicism was his way of coping with tragedy. What Han said next was the real shock. 

“We can’t help them now, Chewie, but if we get the timing right, we can help ourselves.” 

For a moment, Chewbacca thought the war had finally driven his old friend crazy. A moment later, he almost wished his guess was right. 

“The last time we stopped by Rebel HQ, I overheard Major Derlin saying a survey team had discovered a rich vein of pure beskar, enough to buy at least a half-dozen new capital ships and several fighter squadrons on the black market,” Han said. “Naturally, I volunteered the Falcon’s services to ferry the beskar to Incom’s closest shipyard—for a modest cut.

“We were supposed to do that job next week, once the Rebels had mined and refined enough beskar to make a trip worthwhile. Of course, now that the Empire’s is about to drive them off the moon, that beskar is probably still sitting at the mine site. It should have been mostly extracted by now, if not refined. So I figure we slip in during the commotion, grab the raw beskar, and use it to pay off a few debts. Maybe even ferry some of it back to the Rebels if any of them are still alive . . .” 

Chewbacca had let Han know exactly what he thought of this reckless plan, but his old friend wouldn’t be deterred. Now, the Millennium Falcon was dropping out of hyperspace into a neat parabolic orbit over Yavin-4. 

But instead of finding Rebel and Imperial fleets fighting tooth and nail, they found only the Death Star and a flotilla of Star Destroyers serenely orbiting the moon.

“Recalibrate for the Alliance rendezvous point—” Han shouted, but it was too late. The ship shuddered to a halt as the familiar grip of an Imperial tractor beam took hold. All they could do was watch through the cockpit windows as the Death Star drew them into its maw—in this case, one of the infamous space station’s cavernous hangar bays. 

Chewbacca roared in frustration as the invisible rays pulled them into the hangar. 

“Yeah, yeah, ‘I told you so.’ But old buddy, we had to try,” Han said. He shut down the engines and unspooled the landing gear just in time for touchdown on the hangar floor. 

“Stand down and prepare to be boarded,” barked an Imperial voice from the intercom as blaster-wielding Stormtroopers ran toward the ship.  

“It’s not over yet, Chewie, I promise,” Han said, drawing his pistol and slipping it away into the custom hidey-hole underneath the Falcon’s port control panel. Chewbacca’s bowcaster was already hidden away, so all that was left was surrender. 

They left the cockpit, hands raised, and met the boarding party at the Falcon’s loading ramp just as it finished opening. 

“Hey, fellas, looks like we took a wrong turn,” Han quipped. Chewbacca felt like rolling his eyes, but just glared down at the unctuous Imperial officer leading the troopers instead. 

“Well, well,” the Imperial drawled in the haughty Coruscant-accented Standard that had become a symbol of tyranny throughout the galaxy. “Han Solo and Chewbacca, numbers nine and ten on the Empire’s most-wanted list.” 

“Nine and ten?” Han protested, looking genuinely hurt. “I thought at least I rated three or four, but nine? Come on.” 

“He’s nine, you’re ten,” the officer smirked, jerking a thumb in Chewbacca’s direction. “But it hardly matters. Soon you’ll be off the list completely, because you’ll be dead.”

The Stormtroopers chuckled. Chewbacca roared, and they shuffled back. 

“That’s why he’s nine and you’re ten,” the officer said. 

“Yeah, thanks, I got it,” Han said. 

“Come along. Grand Moff Tarkin will be anxious to see you…” 

And so Han Solo and Chewbacca, the most revered swashbuckling space pirates of the outer rim, were frog-marched to their destiny. 

On Wings of Eagles

With thanks to Jeff S. for the inspiration. 

They arrived by Eagle, of course, setting down gently on launch pad three, the pilot expertly firing the retro-rockets just enough to not quite overcome the tug of the Moon's one-sixth gravity. 

Flying would have been faster, Clark thought to himself in the passenger compartment. But then, there's no reason for Superman to be on the Moon, is there? 

An Australian accent crackled over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Moonbase Alpha. We will be debarking in a moment, once Eagle Four has reached its final berth in the landing bay." 

"That's Alan Carter," Lois whispered, pointing at the speaker grille above the cockpit door.

"Gee, Lois, you think so? There's got to be more than one Australian assigned to Alpha..." 

"I know that voice. I interviewed him a few years back, when he was moonlighting as a voiceover artist playing villains on those silly cartoons about Superman and the Justice League." 

"Gosh, I didn't know he did voice overs. But then I'm not really into cartoons," Clark said. 

"Attention passengers - I'm opening the doors. Head to the reception area to be guided to your ultimate destination on Alpha. Enjoy your stay." 

Lois and Clark milled out with the other passengers, looking inconspicuous in their Moonbase guest uniforms--what amounted to tan slacks and long-sleeved tops, each with a thick green stripe running down the left side of the ensemble. 

"Honeymoon suite," Lois said as they reached the reception kiosk. The Alphan attendant smiled widely and handed them each a small, roughly cylindrical device. 

"These are your commlocks," the attendant said. "They'll open your suite and any other publicly accessible place on Alpha. I highly recommend the sun room - it's very relaxing and great for people watching," she smiled coyly, eyeing Clark. 

Clark blushed as they moved past the reception area and into the white plastic catacombs of Moonbase Alpha. "Gee whiz, Lois, I hope you're not thinking of that sun room suggestion. It's a little, uh, racy for our story, don't you think?" 

"Clark, don't worry about looking all scrawny and underfed in your swimsuit. No one will be paying attention to you. Besides, if we're going to get the real scoop on the rumors of rip-offs and kickbacks in Moon tourism, we're going to have to check out all the attractions at some point."  

"Uh, gee, Lois, I guess you're right." 

The honeymoon suite proved quite decadent. The room was cavernous, the ceiling crafted from a gigantic dome of transparent aluminum. The view was magnificent, with the glorious blue-green Earth hovering overhead. 

Lois immediately began stripping out of her Alpha coveralls, causing Clark to abruptly turn his back like the gentleman he was. 

"You know, I think I will check out that sunroom," Lois said, rifling through her travel bag for a suitably scandalous bikini. "I could use a little relaxation after that long flight. And it should be a great spot for gossip." 

"O-of course, Lois," Clark stammered as Lois primped in the mirror, tch-ing at every perceived flaw. To distract himself, Clark scanned the base with varying combinations of telescopic, microscopic, x-ray, infrared, radar, and ultraviolet vision, admiring the intricate mechanical and biological systems that kept the Moon community safe and functional. People really are a marvel, he thought, smiling to himself. 

But when he scanned beyond Alpha's walls, across the stark, dusty moonscape, he saw something alarming at one of the nuclear waste dumps. Clark's eyes widened as his Kryptonian senses revealed a catastrophe in the making: Somehow, the spent nuclear fuel was approaching a critical mass that should have been impossible. In seconds, it would produce an explosion that could crack the Moon in half--or worse. 

Moving faster than the human eye could see, Clark peeled off his Alpha uniform and eyeglasses, stuffed them into a drawer, and vibrated his molecules as he took flight, soaring through the transparent aluminum dome without shattering it, passing between atoms like a spectre. 

Lois felt only a strong breeze. She turned around. "Clark?" 

But Clark, moving at a significant fraction of the speed of light, was already on the far side of the Moon. 

Despite his great speed, he was a second too late. The freighter Eagles would clear the explosion - barely - but it was too late for Clark to halt the reaction. In slow motion, he watched, horrified, as a great plume of nuclear fire erupted. He'd failed--

--or had he? Defying logic, the reaction's energy wasn't being released in one terrible burst; instead, it was spraying out like a rocket engine, putting immense pressure on the Moon, shifting its orbit. In fact, Clark calculated, there was enough energy being produced to send the Moon flying off into outer space with sufficient acceleration to eventually reach relativistic speeds. 

He couldn't let that happen. An eyeblink later, Clark - Superman - positioned himself directly opposite the nuclear waste dump, on the Moon's so-called "near side," relative to Earth. He pressed his hands flat against the Moon and pushed, his tactile telekinisis augmenting his Kryptonian strength and, importantly, preventing him from simply drilling through the satellite like a missile. 

The pressure was immense. Superman's mighty thews strained, and if he could have broken out into a sweat, he would. 

The reaction on the far side of the moon roared in silent rage, throwing all its vast power into propelling the Moon beyond Earth's reach, into the starlit eternity. It was an irresistible force--but there on the other side was Superman, the immovable object. Impossible pressures threatened to crush the Moon, but it held fast. 

On Moonbase Alpha, over three hundred men and women were violently tossed to and fro as the entire satellite trembled. It felt like the end of the world. 

But, over the course of several long, agonizing minutes, the nuclear fire burned dim and finally flamed out. Clark relaxed the force he was applying, steadily, carefully, and at last backed away from the grey surface. He flew past Alpha, scanning for casualties, finding none. He waved at the awestruck Alphans as he flew past the windows of Main Mission, offering them a reassuring smile. 

"You picked quite a day to visit your old stomping grounds, Commander Straker," said John Koenig, newly-installed leader of Alpha.

"So it seems," Straker said blandly, though in truth he was as amazed as everyone else. 

Lois was just picking herself up off the plush carpet of their suite when Clark reappeared, glasses and all. 

"What was that?" she exclaimed, her hair adorably mussed. 

"Looks like we might just have a bigger story to write, Lois," Clark said, and turned to wink at some audience unknown and invisible.

New Superman & Lois Trailer

 

I will admit I prefer the classic Superman trope--that is, the Clark/Lois/Superman love triangle, with all its painful angst--but judging by the trailer, this looks like it might be a half-decent take on a Superman and Lois who've taken the plunge, gotten married, and raised a family. 

A Vision of Future Past

Previously on Jedi/Superman...
Last Son of the Republic
Growing Up Under Twin Suns
Chariot of the Gods
The Emperor's New Genocide
The Quality of Mercy
A Job for Supermen
The Green, Green Glow of Homicide
A Dream of Droids

From the cockpit of his fighter, Luke Skywalker sensed, of course, that Leia planned to surrender; he knew it before the transmission even reached his headset. Therefore, his only course of action was to disobey that final order to rendezvous with the fleet. He would save the Princess and the others from themselves somehow. . .

No. That was the voice of his younger, undisciplined self. He couldn’t just charge off like some gladiator from the old stories. Retreat was the order, and it was a sensible one. The remnants of the fleet could regroup—he and Wedge and Biggs would come up with a rescue plan—they could save Ben and the princess and the others before—

Obey this order you must not. Trust your feelings, seize this act of Defiance. 

Luke’s eyes went wide.

Master Yoda..? 

Luke wept. It was impossible; Yoda had been gone for years. But he felt the Master’s presence like a warm essence all around him.

Time for questions I have not. Is difficult to reach across so much time and space. Stand with your father. Stand with your brother. Stand with the princess. And beware the dark heart of Krypton—beware…! 

The voice faded as if exhausted. “Master Yoda?” Luke called into his cockpit. “Master, come back! The dark heart of Krypton…what is the dark heart of Krypton?”

But there was nothing more. Luke knew what he must do next.

He deactivated his communications systems and used the Force to mask his X-Wing’s emissions. Poor R9-D8 couldn’t even protest; he’d been fried by a TIE blaster bolt early in the losing battle for Yavin. But in some ways that made his next task easier.

As luck—or the Force—would have it, the Defiance wasn’t far away in astronomical terms. Luke set a course for the frigate and flew it into the open hangar bay well before the frigate entered visual range of the nearest Imperial ship’s sensors. And just in time, too; the hangar doors immediately slid closed just as a large escort of TIE fighters formed up to lead the frigate into the Empire’s clutches.

Luke hurried to the bridge, much to the consternation of Princess Leia and General Dodonna. Ben Kenobi only sighed in resignation.

“I gave all pilots a direct order to retreat and rendezvous,” Leia fumed, poking Luke in the chest with one regal finger.

“I couldn’t abandon you,” Luke replied, his eyes soft and infuriatingly sincere. Leia threw up her hands and turned away to stare out the window, watching the Death Star and its squadron of Star Destroyers loom steadily larger. General Dodonna joined her, and the two talked in muted voices about next steps.

“Well, we’re in the lion’s den now, my boy,” Kenobi said. “What possessed you to return?”

Even in these circumstances, Luke couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Ben…Master Yoda spoke to me. Just now. He spoke to me.”

Kenobi was stunned. He’d heard legends of Jedi Knights past transcending the barrier between life and the dark eternity, but he’d never taken the old tales seriously. The Force was powerful indeed, but powerful enough to reach from beyond the grave..?

But he could sense the truth radiating from Luke. “What did he say?”

“He told me I had to come here, to stand with you. With all of you,” he gestured. “But…is Clark all right? The Death Star had a bead on him…”

“He’s fine,” Kenobi said. “I hid him below to recover. The radiation did terrible damage to him, but just a short time in bacta revived him. Miraculous. But I felt you reach out to pull him from the beam’s path, Luke. He would not have survived if you hadn’t intervened.”

Luke sighed, relieved. But then he remembered the last thing Yoda had said.

“Ben…what is the dark heart of Krypton?”

Mild Mannered

The Quality of Mercy

Millennium Falcon
Gliding through the great black emptiness of space proved as simple as gliding through the arid skies of Tatooine. With the power of years of stored energy from Tatooine's twin suns flooding his cells, young Clark Kenobi ate up the distance between the Millennium Falcon and a dozen approaching TIE fighters.

For not the first time in his life, Clark held the power of life and death in his heart. Ben Kenobi had done his best to teach him about the dark side and the light side of the Force, but Clark felt no connection to it, even though Kenobi--and Luke--claimed it permeated the universe. And while he hadn't said so, out of respect for the old man, Clark found it odd that the Jedis seemed to see nothing wrong with the way certain beings could own and control other beings, just because some beings were arbitrarily deemed slaves, and others masters. Clark knew slaves--'droid, alien, human--he liked better than masters.

It didn't help that the history books Kenobi had asked him to read seemed rife with contradiction. Clark wasn't naive--he knew from personal experience the Empire was capable of acts of profound evil--but the Old Republic the Empire had replaced was certainly oppressive in its own way, raising armies of clones seemingly devoid of free will and using those clones to suppress dissent.

Clark didn't think himself particularly wise. But the education crystals Jor-El had included in the rocketship that saved his son suggested different philosophies. Kryptonian philosophy held the values of compassion and egalitarianism in high regard. And the people of Krypton knew of other worlds, lost, distant planets like Oa and Earth and Thanagar that raised champions to fight for truth, justice, and the oppressed.

Clark did not wish to contradict a man he revered, and a foster brother he admired. But nonetheless, he felt there was a right and a wrong in the universe, and the distinction was not very difficult to make. To murder, to bully, to oppress--these things were wrong. To pursue kindness, freedom, to improve quality of life for everyone--these things were right.

So when the first TIE fighter came approached, Clark knew what to do. He could not allow any harm to come to his friends, so he would stop the Imperials. But he would do it his way.

Clark floated to a stop and used his heat vision to sear the wings from the first TIE fighter. The three constituent parts floated away helplessly, the fighter's pilot utterly bewildered.

Clark's alien lungs held several tons of compressed air, which he blasted out in small doses to freeze the next two ships solid, leaving the pilots shivering in their cockpits.

The next TIE drew a bead on him and started shooting. "It tickles," Clark thought to himself as the superheated plasma evaporated harmlessly off his skin. Clark ripped the hatch of that fighter open, yanked out the pilot, and tossed him at a fast but safe speed back toward his home fleet. Clark's X-Ray vision revealed the pilot's air would last more than long enough for one of his colleagues to retrieve him.

Clark was busy tearing the wings off another TIE when he saw blaster fire from behind damage another incoming fighter. Clark turned to see the Millennium Falcon approaching, her dorsal and ventral guns spitting fire at the TIE squadron.

Clark flew up to each turret and shook his head "no" at his foster father and brother in turn. Stunned, the elder Kenobi and Skywalker let their guns fall silent as Clark zigzagged across the TIE formation, freezing some TIEs, melting the wings off others, or simply smashing their laser ports with his indestructible fists. Then, he gathered up the fighters he'd completely disabled and gently shoved them back toward the star destroyer in the distance.

The immediate crisis past, he flew back into the airlock and returned to the Falcon's passenger lounge, where Ben and Luke were waiting.

"Clark that was...incredible," Luke said.

"Indeed," Ben said. "You showed remarkable restraint. But this is a time of war, Clark. Those men you spared have killed innocents before, and could kill again."

"You don't know that," Clark said. "For any one of those men--or women--it might have been the first time they were called out to fight. Most of them probably only joined the Imperial Navy because they needed work."

Ben was about to say something, but at that moment Han Solo barged into the room, having left the cockpit to Chewbacca.

"What the hell were you thinking out there, kid? I mean - I'm still not even sure I believe exactly what I saw, and I sure as hell don't know how you did what I think I saw you do, but I'll tell you I don't know what scares me more: that you can do all that, or that you can do all that but you let all those bastards live!"

"Han, come on...he's just a kid, you can't expect him to be a killer..."

Han pointed at Clark. "A kid, huh? When's the last time you saw a kid who could shoot I-don't-know-what from his eyes? Or who could freeze things by blowing on them? Or, for that matter, who can not only fly, but can fly without a ship, and without a spacesuit, IN OUTER SPACE? Am I the only one who thinks something's just a little strange here?"

"With the Force..." Ben started.

"Don't start with that crap, old man."

"Hey, that's not nice," Clark said.

Han's eyebrows lifted. "Well. I'm SORRY. But it's been kind of a crazy day for me."

Luke waved a hand. "Han, I think what's most important is getting out of here. Did Chewbacca have any luck with--"

Just then, they all felt the hull shudder slightly as the ship leapt back into hyperspace.

"I guess that's a yes," Luke said.

Han smirked. "Nice, job, Chewie!" he jogged back to the cockpit.

"We must discuss this further, Clark."

The boy yawned. "Later, Ben? I'm kinda tired out."

He wasn't. He felt like he could take on the galaxy.

Luke and Ben turned away reluctantly. They shared an uneasy glance. And while Luke had no way of knowing it, Ben's thoughts turned back to another time when he'd mentored a young boy of fantastic potential...a failure that changed the path of a galaxy for the worse.

Star Destroyer Validator
"There was nothing we could do, Lord Vader. I don't know how he did it, but he wrecked every fighter in the squadron. He could have killed us all, but he made sure we'd get back to the fleet."

Vader said nothing. But he trembled slightly. Boiling inside was a rage he'd not felt since he killed that fool Anakin Skywalker, his former best friend, the great betrayer.

The force the pilots described took the form of a teenager. A teenager who could wreck starfighters with a glance. A teenager with such control and compassion that he could not just disable an enemy, but humiliate him with his mercy.

It was intolerable. It was an affront to the Dark Side, to the natural order of the universe.

Vader didn't even look at the twenty-four survivors of the sortie against the Millenium Falcon. Behind his death mask, his eyes closed as he reached out with the invisible tendrils of the Force and slowly, sadistically crushed the throats of each and every pilot the young superboy had spared. They fell to the hangar deck, some twitching for a moment or two before going as still as their dead compatriots.

Vader knew he had a greater calling now. Wiping out the insignificant Rebellion meant virtually nothing compared to his burning need to find and destroy the being that so casually spat in the face of everything Vader believed.

No one is that good, Vader thought. Not Kenobi, not Skywalker, not Yoda, not even Padme. I will find you, young one. I will find you, and before I destroy you, I will rip through that facade and reveal your Dark Side for all to see. 

The Emperor's New Genocide

Star Destroyer Validator

Captain Piett, arms crossed stiffly behind his back, paced along the Validator bridge's main walkway, his jackboots clicking against the black mirror flooring.

He listened, with grave intent, to the chatter from the tactical well: "Crossing from sector 16 to sector 15...results null." "Scanning sector 20...results null." "Crossing from sector 15 to sector 14...scanning." "Sector 21 results...null."

Piett frowned. Imperial intelligence insisted that the long-hidden rebel base skulked somewhere along this cluster of hyperspace corridors. Probe droids and spies had tracked suspected Rebel activity--along with merely routinely suspicious traffic--up and down the length of these sectors for months. Traffic from Rann, Thanagar, and Dantooine looked particularly nefarious; large transports and mid-size cruisers with shielded communications and emission dampeners that could have been installed to evade space pirates...but that would just as well served to hide from the long arm of the Empire. More importantly, these ships never seemed to return to their home ports.

"Got something." It was Lieutenant Brill, a relatively green but sharp-eyed interdiction specialist. "Looks like a small freighter...doesn't really match the profile we're looking for, and it's coming from Tatooine."

Piett scowled. More than likely the target was just another penny ante smuggler, given its configuration and origin. On the other hand, it would be a good test of the interdiction field...

"Commander Kulyhs, as soon as that ship comes within range, energize the field."

"Aye Captain," barked the gaunt, salt-and-pepper haired officer. Seconds later: "Interdict!"

Millennium Falcon
Luke Skywalker was handily batting aside blaster bolts from the Falcon's sparring drone when he was nearly knocked off his feet by a sudden violent jolt. Master Kenobi, watching his apprentice's performance from a bench along the bulkhead, seemed unfazed the abrupt maneuver. Given the annoyed roar from below decks, Chewbacca hadn't fared quite so well.

Skywalker and Kenobi locked eyes, then dashed for the cockpit as one. When they reached it, they saw their pilot cursing the ominous sight of an Imperial Star Destroyer looming out the front windows. Clark Kenobi stared wide-eyed at the ship for a moment, moving aside a second later to allow a fuming Chewbacca to reclaim the co-pilot's chair.

"We ran straight into an Imperial interdiction field, sucked us right out of hyperspace," Solo barked. "I'm trying to bring the drive back online before they scramble fighters or come after us with a tractor beam--"

Luke shook his head, his eyes closed. "The fighters are already coming."

In the same moment, an arrogant drawl slurred from the ship's public address speakers: "Attention freighter. You are voyaging through cautioned space. Prepare to be boarded by Imperial inspectors. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear..."

Solo barked at Skywalker and Kenobi. "Get to the turrets and hold off those fighters while Chewie and I find a way to nullify the interdiction field!"

Master and apprentice sped to the turrets. Clark seemed mesmerized by the sight of the Star Destroyer, his eyes unreadable. But after a moment, the spell was broken. "What can I do?" he asked.

"Get in back and strap yourself in, kid. There's nothing you can do here." Solo's voice was harsh, but Clark knew he didn't mean to be unkind; he was simply too busy.

Clark retreated to the passenger deck, but he knew Solo was wrong. He could do something. He could do a lot of things.

He made his way to the ventral airlock.

Chariot of the Gods

HYPERSPACE, en route to Yavin IV

"Chewie, I don't want you horsing around with that kid on the ship. I'm not worried about you, but I saw him lift a  sandcrawler to save a womp rat. I wouldn't be surprised if he's strong enough to punch a hole in the hull and blow us all into space."

"Rrrrauugghhhh," Chewbacca said.

"Yeah, yeah, you vouch for him, Skywalker vouches for him, the old man vouches for him. But I'll tell ya, I've got a bad feeling about--"

"About what?" said Clark Kenobi, choosing that inopportune moment to visit the Millenium Falcon's cockpit.

"Nothing. Here, kid, take the copilot seat and see how it feels."

"Waaaughhh!" Chewbacca protested.

"Come on, Chewie, move it. You were going to replace that frozen compensator anyway, right?"

Grumbling, Chewbacca moved aft as the teenager hopped into his vacated seat.

"Gee, Captain Solo, thanks." The boy pointedly kept his hands crossed in his lap.

Well, he's disciplined, anyway, Han Solo thought. "Go ahead, take the controls for a second. You won't hurt anything."

But to Solo's surprise, the kid just shook his head. "No thanks. I like just watching the stars go by."

Solo turned his attention back to his controls, bewildered. "Suit yourself."

They flew in silence for a while. Questions burned in Solo's mind, until he at last couldn't contain himself.

"You're not really the old man's nephew, are you?"

The boy blushed, the lie dying on his lips before he could even give it voice.

"No, but keep it a secret, please," he said. "I'm from Krypton."

Solo whistled. "Krypton. Wow. Sorry, kid. That's rough."

"It's okay. I was a baby. I never knew my real parents."

Solo didn't like where this was going. It looked like Old Ben had recruited a second starry-eyed dreamer for his hopeless crusade against the Empire. The kid couldn't be more than 14, maybe younger. Solo was a scoundrel, sure, but none of his criminal activity had ever endangered children.

"I guess you're pretty mad at the Empire, huh?"

But the younger Kenobi shook his head. "I'm not angry. But they do have to be stopped. Imperials kill people, they hurt people, they make people slaves."

"And your...uncle...thinks you can stop all that, huh?"

"I'd like to try. There's a right and a wrong in the universe, and the distinction is not very difficult to make."

I guess it beats 'May the Force be with you,' Solo  thought.

"Look, you just be careful, huh? You mess with the Empire, bad things happen."

"Maybe, but I figure if you mess with the Empire enough, some good things might start to happen too."

Solo started to cast a cynical sidelong gaze at the boy, but he froze in place as he watched young Kenobi gazing out at the blue-shifted stars of hyperspace. The boy's sapphire eyes crackled with raw, barely restrained energy. Solo felt his throat go dry. He'd seen pretty much every weird, dangerous alien the galaxy had to offer. This kid was different.

The way the kid looked through the cockpit windows...Solo wondered if he even needed a ship at all. He knew that look. They were going .5 past lightspeed, faster than practically anything else in Imperial space.

But the boy was impatient. Leaning forward. As if he wished he could just jump out and leave them all behind.

Han Solo was a realist, not given to folk tales and superstition. But in that moment, he wondered if he'd been the naive dreamer all along. 

Growing Up Under Twin Suns

TATOOINE
Under the twin suns of Tatooine, the boy flourished. By the time he turned 12, he was easily defeating the Wookie who often visited Mos Eisley with his itinerant smuggler sidekick. At 14, he could run faster than the T-16 Skyhopper that often flew between Anchorhead and the Lars farm. Ben Kenobi cautioned the boy to be discreet about displaying his immense physical prowess, and to his credit the boy tried, but he was a curious one, eager to explore beyond the sand and rock that were his adopted home.

Soon I'll lose him, Kenobi thought.

"What troubles you, Master?"

Kenobi turned to face his apprentice, Luke Skywalker, now approaching his 30th year and a Jedi Knight in his own right, though he could never be called by that title in public, lest he be hunted down like the rest of the order. Kenobi and Skywalker were the last, even Master Yoda having faded into the light of the Force a decade past. Now they hid like the fugitives they were, away from the prying eyes of the Empire, on a planet so forsaken the Emperor left it to the Hutts.

"Young Clark is growing too big for this world. Like you," Kenobi said, reaching out to place a gentle hand on Skywalker's shoulder.

"Is it finally time? After all these years in exile?"

"I don't know, Luke," Kenobi said. "The Rebellion's back was nearly broken all those years ago. It's taken this long to recoup even a fraction of our strength, with the threat of the Death Star holding sympathetic worlds hostage. While the Empire's dark tyranny flourishes, we must wait."

Luke sighed. "I'm so sick of waiting. They need us. Two Jedi could make all the difference, Ben."

Kenobi nodded in acknowledgement, then turned away from his protege to watch as a whirlwind of swirling sand approached from beyond the dunes. It was a phenomenon he'd seen before; when Clark ran at his full speed, he kicked up a trail of dust in his wake.

But then something new happened. Kenobi and Skywalker watched in awe as the boy leapt into the air--and did not come down. He swooped through the sky, laughing, his red cape fluttering in the breeze behind him. It was nothing like the levitation the Force allowed, slow and graceful; the boy was a zephyr.

Kenobi pointed skyward. "Two Jedi could make a difference," he agreed. "But he could make the difference."

Kenobi's old brow furrowed as he weighed possibilities. The boy was already impervious to blaster fire. Lightsabers couldn't cut through his impenetrable hide. His alien senses matched and even outmatched many Jedi powers. He could hurl heat beams from his eyes. And now this - flying through the air without antigrav repulsors. What a soldier he'd make.

"Luke, my young, old friend," Kenobi said. "Let's go down to Mos Eisley and see if that rogue Solo is in port this month. It may be time to go after all."

YAVIN IV
In the Great Temple of Massassi that hid the remnants of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan and General Jan Dodonna leaned over a holographic display tank and watched the latest fleet strength numbers play out.

"Fifty starfighters, twelve capital ships, barely 10,000 troops," Dodonna said. "At this recruitment and resupply rate, we'll be ready for another try at the Death Star by the time you're ready for retirement, Princess."

"I'll retire when the Emperor and his hound Vader are dead, General, and their Empire shattered forever. I know I can find more allies. I just need to look farther afield...beyond the Empire's reach."

"It's too risky. Artoo is a capable droid and Darklighter a formidable pilot, but even those two can't keep you out of trouble forever."

"Then give me an alternative."

"Princess, we have no alternatives left--" Dodonna began. But at that moment, See Threepio, a golden-hued protocol droid, hurried into the room.

"Sir! Princess! There's a message--a message from Obi-Wan Kenobi! He says...they're on their way!"

Leia and Dodonna regarded each other. "They?" Leia said.

Dodonna could only shrug helplessly. And yet somehow...they both knew something had changed. A new hope washed over them.

The Alternate

Cinema Crossover

Reading Glasses

The New Daily Planet

For the fourth or fifth time in his long publishing history, Superman's backstory will start all over again, and the character's status quo is being considerably shaken up. The new Superman will have lost both his natural and his foster parents, and he'll no longer be married to Lois Lane (indeed, because of the twisted logic of retroactive continuity, the marriage never happened at all).

Some readers in their 20s and 30s are livid over this change, feeling that "their" Superman is being taken away. I understand those feelings; I had them in 1986, when the Superman I enjoyed in childhood was erased from comic book history and replaced by John Byrne's take on the character. But I'm older now, and in the interim I've gone back and read most of Superman's adventures, from the 1930s onward. This isn't the first time the character has started over from scratch; it's not even the second or third. The Superman of the 30s is a very different animal than that of the late 40s, who is different than the character of the 50s, the 70s and on and on. Superman endures because he evolves, and there's joy to be had in discovering the adventures of each and every iteration of the legend.

There's one artifact of Superman's backstory, however, that is coming dangerously close to dating the character: his day job as a "reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper." Big newspapers certainly seem to be on the decline, and one wonders how long printing presses will continue to run. If the New York Times struggles to retain its traditional audience, how can the Daily Planet fare?

The solution is actually relatively simple. Traditional journalism may be on the wane, but society will always need the fourth estate. Perhaps the new Daily Planet shouldn't be a traditional newspaper, with offices in a skyscraper; perhaps instead its footprint should be more diffuse, an online news source of truly planetary scope, with citizen reporters blogging from all over the world. Lois and Clark and Jimmy Olsen would have to be multidisciplinarian ENGs, able to write, shoot video and photos and submit material online. Perry White could be the last grizzled relic of traditional publishing, facing a whole new learning curve as he struggles to ride herd on his younger, hipper employees. Imagine what Jimmy Olsen's flikr account would look like; imagine the sardonic, no-nonsense tweets Lois Lane would produce. Imagine how mild-mannered Clark Kent would navigate the merciless flamewars that so often erupt on social media!

The business viability of news reporting remains a problem; advertising revenues won't cut it. Perhaps this new Daily Planet could be publicly funded, maybe as a subsidiary of NPR. Or it could be funded by donations; certainly DC philanthropists such as Bruce Wayne or Oliver Queen would donate generously.

The only problem I see with this new milieu is the lack of natural storytelling opportunities that arise in a traditional workplace. Gathering together in a central location from 9 to 5 provides a convenient setting for drama or comedy, and having all of the Planet employees telecommuting presents new storytelling challenges, not least of which is that it makes it almost too easy for Clark to slip away during emergencies to change to Superman. Maybe Perry would insist on mandatory weekly meetings just to reconnect, traditionalist that he is.

This idea isn't at all radical or new; when television news seemed to be eclipsing newspapers back in the 1970s, Denny O'Neil tried a similar trick, giving Clark Kent a new job as a TV anchorman. That change lasted fifteen years or so, until the Byrne reboot, which reestablished Clark as a Daily Planet reporter once more. That return to the status quo was still tenable back in the 80s, but perhaps not so much anymore. Clark Kent should remain a reporter...but the character's writers should recognize that the nature of his job is evolving before our very eyes.

Besides, I think it would be interesting to read Clark Kent's Twitter feed.

Happy Birthday, Superman!

This article was originally published in a 1998 issue of Singapore's The Peak magazine, which explains the dated references to the "electric blue" era of Superman comics and the thankfully cancelled Tim Burton Superman Lives project. It was a real pleasure not only to write about my favourite comic book character, but to be paid good money for doing so! 

Looking back, this article seems a little breathless to me, and somewhat haphazardly organized. I'd approach the subject with more nuance and deeper analysis today. Still, I think it serves as a reasonable primer for forgiving audiences. 

Happy Birthday, Superman!

60 Years of Truth, Justice, and the American Way

Sixty years ago, a ten-cent pulp magazine called Action Comics #1 hit newsstands across North America. On the cover was an unlikely image: a caped figure in red and blue tights, lifting an auto over his head, smashing it against an outcropping of rock as a band of terrified criminals scrambles for cover. That caped figure was Superman - last survivor of the doomed planet Krypton, who, disguised as mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent, fought a never-ending battle for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. The character was an immediate smash hit, and his adventures have seen continuous publication since that first appearance in June of 1938. Today, Superman is one of  a select number of fictional characters in the pop culture tradition recognized the world over; perhaps only Tarzan of the Apes and Zorro are as well known. It all began when two teenagers, inspired by the exploits of daring crusaders like Doc Savage and the Scarlet Pimpernel, decided to create their own hero in the same vein - but with a few fantastic twists.

Jerry Siegel was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1914. Joe Shuster was born in Toronto, Ontario, that same year. Joe moved to Cleveland at the age of nine, met Jerry, and the two began a friendship that endured until their deaths just a few years ago. They would ensure their place in history when, in 1933, they developed their first concept of Superman: a visitor from another world, with “powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men.” For five years they attempted to sell their creation to the newspapers, intending to publish their character’s exploits in the syndicated comic strip format. It wasn’t until 1938 that they would finally manage to get Superman published - but in a new form, the comic book. Before Superman’s debut, comic books had only been collections of reprints of already-established newspaper comic strips. Action Comics would be the first comic book to feature original material. The editor of Action Comics was a little nervous about such an outlandish character being marketable, especially in a new medium, but to his surprise, the magazine sold extremely well and continued to rise in popularity with each successive issue. In those formative years, Superman fever hit the nation, spawning a second comic devoted solely to Superman’s exploits (Action Comics featured characters in addition to the Man of Steel), a radio program, movie serials, and a 1942 novel. By 1940 he was also featured in a syndicated newspaper strip - the original goal of Siegel and Shuster.

In retrospect, it shouldn’t be surprising that the character was so popular with young men - the target audience, at the time, for comic book adventures. Superman was strong (stronger than anyone!), handsome, invincible - the things every guy wants to be. Not only that - the girls all fell for him, world leaders respected him, and no one but no one messed with him. (As the song goes - “You don’t tug on Superman’s cape.”) The real secret to Superman’s popularity, though was his alter-ego: mild-mannered Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent, the bespectacled nerd who served as the stand-in for the reader. Superman had to disguise himself as Clark, the reasoning went, so that he could spend part of his time living a normal life, as well as ensuring that criminals could not strike back at Superman through his loved ones. Clark was shy, a little cowardly, and very awkward with women. He was smart, but clumsy and weak - no football or track star, he. He wore the same blue suit every day, along with an unflattering pair of horn-rimmed glasses. But when danger threatened, Clark would, without fail, rush into a telephone booth or empty storeroom and rip open his shirt to reveal the red and yellow “S” - a sure sign that hard-hitting action was not long in coming. It was, and remains, an attractive fantasy for young men. Sure, your friends may think that you’re a wimp - but you have a secret. If they only knew that under that meek exterior burned the heart of an unstoppable crusader for good…

The lively supporting cast helped expand the comic’s popularity. For the girls, there was Daily Planet reporter Lois Lane, Clark’s co-worker and love interest: feisty, independent, smart, beautiful, a career woman before being a career woman was fashionable. For younger kids, there was Jimmy Olsen, the eager copy boy who became Superman’s best pal. There was even a gruff father figure, the irascible but warm-hearted Perry White, editor of the Daily Planet. 

Superman’s background story adds to his mythic power. Consider that he is an orphan, the last survivor of the doomed planet Krypton. In the Superman tales, Krypton is an incredibly advanced civilization, densely populated by perfect beings who have conquered war, disease, hunger, and crime. However, the Kryptonians have grown somewhat complacent. Their world is about to explode, and only Superman’s father, Jor-El, realizes that the danger exists. As his wife Lara watches tearfully, Jor-El places his only son, the infant Kal-El, into a tiny experimental rocket ship. Just before the planet explodes, Kal-El is shot into space, saved at the last moment. The rocket lands in Kansas, where farmers Jonathan and Martha Kent find it. They hide the secret of the child’s alien heritage from the world, raising him as their own son, teaching him values and impressing upon him that he is a special being and must use his incredible abilities only to help others, never to cause harm or seek personal power. The circumstances of Superman’s origin are strongly reminiscent of Christian accounts; a godlike father figure sends his only son to Earth to spread the good word. 1978’s Superman: The Movie makes the allegory even more blatant. Marlon Brando, as the spirit of Jor-El, lectures his son at one point in the film:

“It is now time for you to rejoin your new world…and to serve its collective humanity. Live as one of them, Kal-El…they can be a great people, Kal-El, they wish to be - they only lack the light to show the way. For this reason above all…their capacity for good…I have sent them you…my only son.”

In the film, the Kryptonians are garbed in brilliant white and the cities are gleaming crystalline towers; all very heavenly and angelic. The metaphor was little bit too much for some Christians; in the year of the film’s release, there was a brief period of outrage at the comparison of a comic book character to the Biblical Saviour. The furor died down quickly, though, and Superman’s popularity continued to fly high.

Superman’s rich back story became a little diluted over the years, though.

As the 1950s and 1960s progressed, writers began to introduce other survivors of Krypton. First there was Supergirl, Superman’s cousin Kara, a blonde teenager who had survived Krypton’s explosion when her home, the bubble-enclosed Argo City, was blown off the planet in a separate chunk. There was Krypto, Superman’s dog, and Beppo, the Super Monkey, both test animals shot into space by Jor-El whose capsules eventually drifted to Earth. (The SPCA would probably not have approved of Jor-El’s methods.) Then there came Comet the Super-Horse, Streaky the Super-Cat, Titano the Super-Ape, a plethora of super-criminals from the Kryptonian prison known as the Phantom Zone, and eventually an entire shrunken city in a bottle full of survivors of the cataclysm. By the early 1980s, one began to wonder if Superman’s parents were the only Kryptonians who didn’t survive the planet’s destruction.

Superman’s abilities grew as time went on, as well. In the early years, he could merely leap tall buildings in a single bound and was more powerful than a locomotive. By the 1980s, he was flying at speeds faster than light, shifting planets in their orbits, and had a ridiculous array of powers, including “super-ventriloquism” - which, apart from the obvious applications, enabled Superman to talk in the airless vacuum of space!

As the character neared his 50^th anniversary, editors at DC Comics, publishers of the Man of Steel’s adventures, decided that something needed to be done - so they started over from scratch, “rebooting” the character as though he were a buggy computer, to get the kinks out. The experiment worked. In 1986 Superman was born anew, once more the only survivor of Krypton, with more basic superhuman abilities and a less convoluted array of supporting characters. Revitalized, Superman became more popular after the reboot than he had been in many years, and his success has continued into this 60^th anniversary year. At present, Superman appears in over a half-dozen comics per month; he had a very popular television series, the whimsical “Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman” wrap up last year, and an excellent animated series is still running on the Warner Brothers network. Tim Burton, director of the first two Batman movies, is currently at work on what will be the fifth Superman feature film. Currently rumoured to be playing the lead role is superstar (if you will forgive the pun) Nicholas Cage; Home Improvement’s Tim Allen may play the villain Brainiac; and Kevin Spacey (The Usual Suspects) may essay the role of Superman’s arch nemesis, Lex Luthor.

Recently, some longtime Superman fans have been outraged by a radical change to the character; in 1997, his costume and abilities were changed. Superman lost the old red, yellow and blue suit; it was replaced by a blue and white jumpsuit, and his traditional powers were gone. Even the cape was discarded. Now, Superman had an array of electromagnetic abilities, acquiring blue skin and a lightning-boltish appearance.  Dubbed “Bluperman” by detractors, the storyline has nonetheless been popular. DC comics recently revealed, however, that as part of the 60^th anniversary celebrations, Superman will get his traditional costume and powers back.

The character has become a pop-culture staple; the phrases “Look…up in the sky!”, “Faster than a speeding bullet,” and “Up, up and away!” are as immediately recognizable as “Beam me up, Scotty,” and “Who was that masked man?” His symbol, a stylized “S” in an irregular pentagram, is as widely known as any corporate logo, adorning t shirts, keychains, watches, and even underwear. Not an episode of Seinfeld passes without some glimpse of a Superman statue or sticker somewhere in the background; Seinfeld is an ardent fan of the character and even appears with him in a very entertaining commercial running currently in the United States. Musician Jon Bon Jovi and athlete Shaquille O’Neill sport “S” symbol tattoos. The Crash Test Dummies had a hit with “Superman’s Song” a few short years ago, as did the Spin Doctors with “Jimmy Olsen’s Blues” - a reference to Superman’s pal.

During the run of the 1950s series The Adventures of Superman, the character was portrayed by George Reeves. I Love Lucy was running at the same time, and Reeves, as Superman, drops in on Lucy in one memorable episode. Superman has always enjoyed the company of famous personalities; he held off an invasion from Mars in 1950 assisted by, appropriately enough, director and writer Orson Welles. He met actress Ann Blyth in 1949, was honoured by President John F. Kennedy in 1962, argued with Ronald Reagan in 1986, and brought Hitler and Stalin to justice for crimes against humanity in 1939 (!), preventing World War II. (One regrets that this particular adventure was only imaginary.) He visited Disneyland with science-fiction writer Ray Bradbury in the 1978 Eliot S. Maggin novel Last Son of Krypton. He even fought the famous boxer Muhammad Ali - and lost! - in a very enjoyable late ‘70s tale. 

When the character “died” in the much-ballyhooed Death of Superman storyline a few years back, CBS anchorman Dan Rather read the following statement: “We can no longer say, ‘Let Superman do it.’ The quest for truth and justice must become our quest - not singly as vigilantes, but together as the great people Superman hoped we would be.” Superman recovered, of course, but Rather’s words remain moving.

Why such devotion to someone who is, after all, a fictional being, a four-colour wraith who only exists in our imaginations? I think it’s because, at heart, Superman’s greatest desire is to do the right thing. He never lies; he is polite and generous; he is humble; he uses violence only as a last resort; and, despite the ability to do so, he eschews personal power and uses his fantastic powers only in the service of others. In a world where all too few of us display such characteristics, it’s hard not to be inspired by such a concept. A few years ago, a friend and I were watching Superman III on television. She turned to me at one point and said, “You know, Earl - you’re just like Clark Kent.” Though I felt undeserving of the remark (and still do), it was the highest compliment I have ever been paid, and I treasure the memory. The idea of a Superman has inspired countless numbers of people, including me, to be kind to others and to help out whenever possible. In that sense, he is very real - real enough that from time to time I imagine that I glimpse a red and blue blur soaring overhead, and I am tempted to cry out, “Look! Up in the sky…”

So, Happy Birthday, Supes, and thanks for sixty years of adventure and inspiration.

Super Supporting Characters

For about a decade and a half spanning the early 70s to the mid 80s, Clark Kent worked not as a newspaper reporter, but as anchorman for WGBS-TV. WGBS was located in the same office tower as the Daily Planet, allowing Clark to stay in contact with his regular supporting cast, folks like Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen and Perry White...and of course, Connie Hatch, "the Planet's PUZZLE EDITOR!"

Who knew the Daily Planet had a puzzle editor? I suppose it makes sense that a major metropolitan newspaper would have one, but it's still a little strange to see one playing a role in a comic book story. And yet, odd little details like this enhance the verisimilitude of even the most outlandish stories.

As seen here, Connie inadvertently manages to provide the insight Clark needs to solve Superman's current problem. I wonder if DC or Warner Brothers ever thought of partnering with Ideal to create an S-shield variant of the Rubik's Cube?

In the story excerpt above, Clark references his nominal boss, news director Josh Coyle. Coyle made many appearances in the 70s and 80s, but vanished after Superman's character - and the world he inhabits - was rebooted by John Byrne in 1986.

It's a shame, because I've always had a soft spot for the antacid-popping Coyle. Imagine trying to produce a nightly news show with an anchorman who always showed up at the last second, or who vanished during commercial breaks.

Of course, Coyle needn't have worried, since with Superman's speed, Clark Kent could always handle emergencies and anchor the news, virtually at the same time - but Coyle wasn't privy to Kent's dual identity. Poor Josh, needlessly plagued with ulcers, all thanks to Superman!

To my knowledge, neither Connie nor Josh were ever transformed into werewolves, kidnapped by Metallo, mind-controlled to do a villain's bidding or suffered any other of the various twists and turns of fates suffered by Superman's more famous supporting characters. They were just ordinary folks in an extraordinary world, grounding some pretty crazy stories with just a touch of reality. Comic books wouldn't be the same without them.

P is for Principles...and Perry White

While re-reading my old Superman comics, I came across this panel from Action Comics #670, published back in 1991, during the last recession. Here, Daily Planet Managing Editor Perry White expresses his outrage, disgusted by the owners' decision to freeze wages and lay off workers - including Jimmy Olsen. Even Lois Lane and Clark Kent, newly engaged, lost their staff positions and were forced to do freelance work for the paper.

Perry's outrage certainly captured the zeitgeist of the era. I was just out of university and struggled for years to find meaningful employment, and of course others were even worse off. I finally landed a job at a non-profit in the mid-90s and started selling some freelance articles and haven't really looked back since, though like most people I've suffered my own economic ups and downs. Now Albertans (among most others in the world) are facing tough choices in the wake of high unemployment, wage freezes, rollbacks, unfavourable contract negotiaions...the same old 90s story all over again. Perry White wasn't just speaking for reporters, but for people like the public sector workers of Alberta, the teachers and nurses who sacrificed so much during the Klein years. Many of them left, including some friends of mine, and Alberta is certainly feeling their absence - despite the current downturn, we're still dangerously short of health care professionals.

You don't balance the books by breaking the backs of your workers. Seems like common sense to me, but it seems we have few political leaders willing to take the long view.

Clark's Secret

This series of panels has lived in my memory for decades. It's the denouement of a story from an early 1970s issue of Action Comics.

I'm not sure what it is that grabs me. Part of it must be the pacing; slow, deliberate, highlighting Clark's seeming dejection. Then the reveal - Clark and the reader understand the irony of Lois' pronouncement; it's a secret that he's sharing with us.

And perhaps it's a message of solace to the typical reader - young boys and teenagers. Maybe it doesn't matter if the girl of your dreams doesn't respond to you; you, after all, know what she's really missing. That's powerful comfort for an awkward age.

Super HR Department

Poor Clark. Clearly, if he weren't forced to play the part of a meek, mild-mannered sort, he could pursue one heck of a lawsuit. Talk about a hostile work environment!