The research department at LuthorTech takes up an entire city block. The building squats in the center of downtown, where streets and sidewalks are a jungle during rush hour. Alexander likes the crowds; he keeps his office on the first floor so he can watch strangers pa.s.s scant yards beyond his tinted windows. He has other offices, better offices, in prettier parts of town, but he has not seen them in over five years.

Alexander's brothers do not understand this. The big picture has always eluded them, along with humility and the practical application of science and business theory. It is why Alexander's father made his youngest son the princ.i.p.al shareholder in LuthorTech, why his two oldest pretend to manage sales and marketing while alternating between office and golf course, why the old man rests easy at night, without fear his life's work will die. Despite their differences in lifestyle, which have crippled communication, Alexander's father knows his son is a smart man. Too eccentric, perhaps, to be acceptable- but very, very smart.

Smart enough to appreciate the backbone of the company, to dwell close within the marrow, directing firsthand the genius on his payroll. His enthusiasm helps. The employees like Alexander. They respect him, even- though he knows they make fun of his name, his appearance. Lex Luthor in the flesh, they say. Our boss, the mad scientist. Does he keep kryptonite in his shorts? Ha. Ha. Ha.

Alexander blames his mother. She insisted on his name, on the dignity of its sound. Alexander wonders if he would be a different man if she had called him George or Simon or Larry. A name without myth or power. Without expectation.

But no, he is Alexander. He is Lex. And he has lived up to that name, in more ways than one.

"They're growing faster than we antic.i.p.ated, Mr. Luthor. We'll need bigger cages soon."

The lab is poorly lit. Or rather, it is well lit according to the parameters of the experiment. Batch number 381 does not thrive under bright lights, so the scientists have installed lower energy bulbs, the kind used in photography darkrooms. Everything is cast in red, blood-red, and Alexander feels as though he is in the middle of a particularly nasty horror movie. The writhing ma.s.ses of glistening flesh lumped in gla.s.s tanks do not help. In fact, it looks p.o.r.nographic.

Alexander steps close. The tanks are completely air tight, each one equipped with an isolated oxygen pump that filters and a.n.a.lyzes and recycles. There are also feeding slots- storage chambers built with a series of small airlocks and safety mechanisms, timed to release sludge when the sensors indicate that tank levels have dropped below acceptable feeding levels. The creatures like to swim through s.h.i.t. It is the earthworm in them, this instinct to burrow deep.

But these pulsing undulating worms are as thick as Alexander's arm, and it is not soil they are consuming.

"Have you added mercury to the mix yet?" Alexander asks.

Dr. Reynolds, a tall woman of middle years, quirks her lips. "Mercury, toluene, and just about every other heavy metal we can think of. They eat it right up, with no visible side effects. It's incredible, Mr. Luthor. That sludge is so toxic the fumes alone could probably kill a person."

Alexander cannot tell if Dr. Reynolds is joking; the amus.e.m.e.nt in her voice does not reach her eyes. This is worrisome, because Alexander trusts her judgment.

"Kathy," he says. "What's wrong? If there's a health risk to all of you-"

"No, nothing like that." Dr. Reynolds stares at the tank. One of the worms momentarily swells, ridges flaring in response to some mysterious biological cue. Its slick bulk disappears beneath a rolling heave of supple bodies that slip sideways to strain against the sludge-packed gla.s.s. "I hate looking at these things," she finally says. "They scare me."

"Good," Alexander says. "We're playing G.o.d, Kathy. We should be afraid."

"And here I thought G.o.d was fearless."

"The only fearless G.o.d is the one who doesn't have to live with His mistakes. If that were us, I wouldn't be forced to keep more than a hundred lawyers on the company payroll."

"Yes," agrees Dr. Reynolds. "That is indeed a sign of dark times."

There is little more to discuss. Alexander ends his meeting with Dr. Reynolds. The red lights and the red worms are too much, and it will be lunch in an hour. To stay inside that lab any longer would be cruel.

So Alexander wanders, moving through each floor of his building with methodical abandon. He has a purpose, which is to make sure all the lead projects are progressing smoothly, but he does not care how he gets there. It is enough that his legs are moving. He is still thinking about worms.

It is a long-known fact that certain kinds of bacteria eat toxic waste and sewage, but such organisms are slow and require sensitive environments. More than two years ago, LuthorTech was given a government contract to develop creatures that are not so . . . sensitive. Not so slow. And now Alexander's team has succeeded. Or so he thinks.

Alexander will not lose sleep, either way. The government has paid for a genetically engineered solution to toxic spills, and that is what it shall receive. Only, there is a tiny fear in Alexander's heart. His alter ego, after all, is a wicked man. A wicked man, without any counterpart in the world to balance his darkness.

There is no Superman. Alexander must be his own moral compa.s.s.

The wandering continues into lunch. Alexander had planned to eat in his office, but the sun is shining and his mind is still trapped in a red-lit room. He leaves the building and hits the sidewalk, carried by the crowd toward a destination unknown.

He knows why the worms frighten Dr. Reynolds. It has nothing to do with the way they look. It is enough that they are new and powerful and man-made. Evolution favors the strong, but these creatures are products of disparate evolutions. Distant biological paths, forced to collide into one body.

The government calls them Living Machines: a deceptive term, meant to soothe. There are more planned, for various purposes; the contracts and proposals are locked within Alexander's safe, awaiting his signature. The government likes to dream big and it favors LuthorTech because the company is discreet, because it gets the job done. No fuss, ever. LuthorTech does not raise moral objections. Not when the price is right.

But Alexander knows there are all kinds of prices to pay- a price for every action- and he wonders about lines and points of no return, how far he can go before he becomes the man he pretends to be; how far he can push before myth becomes reality. He wonders, not for the first time, if creating that reality will not invite another collision of coincidence. Darkness, after all, is always offset by light.

Alexander wonders what he will attract if he becomes, in truth, Lex.

The sidewalk ends; he can turn left or right, but ahead of him is a vast expanse of green, and he decides that gra.s.s might be a nice change from concrete and gla.s.s. He crosses the street, pa.s.ses through the open iron gate, and enters the park. The sounds of traffic fade instantly. Alexander feels coc.o.o.ned by sunlight and the scent of fresh turned soil.

The smell of grease soon overpowers the smell of nature. Alexander finds a concession stand and buys a sandwich, chips, a large soda. The surrounding benches are taken, so he wanders off the path onto thick gra.s.s, plopping down in the shade cast by a gnarled oak. He does not sit there long before he feels a presence at his back, the subtle hint of shuffling feet.

Alexander glances over his shoulder and sees a man approaching. Middle-aged, with a dusting of silver in his hair. He has a homeless sort of look, which has nothing to do with his somewhat scruffy clothes, his tangled beard, or the limp backpack in his hand. Alexander can tell the man is homeless because his eyes are hollow, hungry. It is a gaze of desperate despair, and Alexander feels a rush of fear to be confronted by such helpless sorrow. But then he remembers the worms and the papers in his safe, the other projects percolating in his labs, and he thinks, I am much more frightening than this man. And he, at least, is human.

Alexander nods at the man, who hesitates for just one moment before setting down his backpack and slumping to his knees in the gra.s.s. Alexander does not make him ask; he gives the man half his sandwich, and pushes over the drink and chips.

"Thanks," the man says. Alexander can hear the desert in that voice, which carries the dry timbre of sand. Elegant and coa.r.s.e, like its owner. "My name is Richard."

"Alexander."

Richard nods. The two men say nothing more. They eat and watch joggers and mothers with strollers; children on leashes and dogs running without; teenagers slinging Frisbees, shouting obscenities at each other with adolescent affection. It is a very nice afternoon.

"Tell me about yourself," Richard finally says, finishing the last of the chips. "What kind of man are you?"

An interesting question, considering the source. Alexander studies Richard, but the man's eyes are stronger now, more full. He even looks belligerent. Defiant. Alexander smiles.

"I'm not a very nice man," he says.

Richard grunts. "So, you're an honest man."

"When it suits me."

"My statement still stands."

Alexander chuckles. This is . . . different. "What about you?"

"Ah, see, I'm a very good man."

"Liar."

"Oh, the insult." Richard slurps down the soda and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you? Thirty, thirty-five?"

"Around there."

"You're wearing a nice suit. Armani, by the look of it. And you're sitting in the gra.s.s, getting it dirty. You must be pretty successful."

"I do all right."

"I thought you were an honest man."

"I own half this city."

Richard grins. "That's better. You earn it?"

"I plan to."

"Good enough." Richard climbs to his feet, brushing crumbs off his clothes. Alexander stands with him; he senses their conversation is over, and it leaves him awkward. Confused. He has not asked his own questions. He knows nothing about this man, who in less than a minute has managed to both surprise and disconcert.

Alexander feels like they were just getting started, but that is not right, either.

Richard holds out his hand and Alexander takes it.

"You have a good life, kid. Stay honest." Richard releases him, stoops to pick up his backpack, and begins shuffling away with a good deal more dignity than at his arrival. Alexander stares after him, heart pounding.

"Uh, wait," he calls out. "Do you . . . do you need money?"

Richard turns, fixes Alexander with a pointed stare. "I'd rather have a job."

Alexander thinks for a moment, and says, "I can do that."

Richard will not talk about himself, who he was before losing home and livelihood. Alexander finds him work as a janitor. He is probably overqualified to clean toilets and mop floors, but that does not matter. According to Richard, the past- that life- is done. Besides, being a janitor at LuthorTech pays well. Alexander takes care of his employees. Keeps them from unionizing.

And Richard, in turn, takes care of Alexander. Small things, only. Words more than actions. Alexander does not have many friends- his own family rarely speaks to him- and while Richard might not count as much more than an acquaintance, Alexander enjoys talking to a man who does not ridicule him behind his back, but always, always to his face.

"You have problems," Richard says, the first time he sees Alexander's office, the poster of Superman on the wall.

"I know how to make fun of myself, that's all," Alexander says, stung.

Richard gives him a look. Alexander suddenly feels as though he has been caught in church with both hands on his d.i.c.k. The most embarra.s.sing sin, exposed.

"Kid." Richard stares at Alexander's naked scalp, still moist from a recent shave. "There's nothing fun about this."

It is the truth, the closest truth Alexander has ever heard spoken aloud, but he says nothing. To speak would acknowledge a truth that would reveal a secret, a secret too close to Alexander's heart, too entangled in his soul, to ever be breathed. Alexander has built his life around this myth. He cannot stop now- will not stop- no matter the pain.

Richard asks, "Why?"

Alexander hears himself say, "Because I believe a man can fly."

The worms are ready.

They have pa.s.sed all initial tests, and except for their size- which is startling, unusual, and somewhat disturbing- they are ready for a real-world scenario. The government has picked the time and place, and if the worms succeed within the parameters set for them, the government will take possession of the creatures and begin using them in earnest. The first of many Living Machines, created for the public good.

Which is why Alexander is encased in a rubber sleeve, standing thigh-deep in open sewage, trying not to vomit into the oxygen mask strapped over his face.

He is not the only one struggling for balance in the sludge. Dr. Reynolds and her team are present, along with scientists from the federal government. This section of the city sewer system is completely blocked off, sealed tight to prevent any of the worms from escaping into the main line. Alexander objects to the use of a public facility for this test, but the government wants to make sure the worms will thrive outside a controlled environment.

Alexander does not worry about them thriving. Quite the opposite.

These particular worms, which are waiting to be released from the plastic containers carried by Dr. Reynolds and her a.s.sistants, are young and small, fresh from the incubator. The others, the mammoths of Batch number 381, have been destroyed, their bodies conserved for study. Alexander's skin p.r.i.c.kles, remembering those ma.s.sive bodies, heavy with sludge, resting torpid at the bottom of their enlarged tanks. Still alive, still healthy, and still growing.

Alexander catches Dr. Reynolds's worried glance. They share a moment of perfect doubt. This is a lot of sludge and they are releasing a lot of worms. When the experiment is over, the government's plan is to carefully drain the remaining sludge from the system, thereby revealing- and trapping- the worms for easy collection. Alexander does not think it will be so easy, but the government scientists have insisted.

Dr. Reynolds inches close. "You really don't have to be here for this, Mr. Luthor. Once they get the instruments calibrated, all we're going to do is dump the worms into the sewage." Alexander hears an odd thumping sound. Dr. Reynolds tightens her grip on the container.

"What?" Alexander drawls, eyeing the cloudy plastic. "And miss this? You shock me, Kathy."

Dr. Reynolds snorts, but her face is pale, her eyes just a little too large beneath her mask. She has seen what the creatures become; she knows what will happen down here.

"Kathy," he says, touching her arm.

"I'm all right," she says. "I just don't know what we're doing."

"Science, Kathy. We're doing science."

"Science." She draws the word out, low and hard. "And here I thought we were playing G.o.d."

Dr. Reynolds turns away toward the other scientists. Alexander watches her go, unable to call her back. She is right, of course, and he wishes he had chosen this moment to be honest, to speak again the truth voiced in the red-lit room when he told her it was all right to be afraid because yes, what they were doing was too big for mere mortals, too much responsibility to put on human shoulders.

We're doing more than science, Alexander thinks. He watches Dr. Reynolds flip the locks on her rattling container. We've crossed the line into something bigger.

But we can't go back. Not now.

Dr. Reynolds opens the lid and Alexander hears a hiss that is not human, a sound that exists only because he signed a piece of paper.

The worms fall free in a tangle, smacking the sludge, writhing against the surface before sinking, sinking, out of sight. The other containers open: worms are unceremoniously dumped. Alexander imagines them working their way through the darkness, feeding, growing. He feels something brush his ankle and it takes all his strength not to shudder.

Everyone begins to clamber out of the sludge. Alexander realizes he is being left behind. It is a short climb up the ladder to the wide shelf jutting from the sewer wall. Dripping s.h.i.t, Alexander is greeted by a man wearing a yellow rain slicker over a dark suit. A nameless government liaison paying his dues in a c.r.a.ppy a.s.signment. His eyes are bloodshot and he keeps swallowing hard. Even better, then. A puker.

Alexander rips off his mask; he almost doubles over from the smell, but manages to maintain his composure better than the other men and women removing their facial protective gear. Amidst a symphony of gagging, Alexander forces a smile. The puker grunts, his gaze sliding sideways to the sludge below them.

"So those things really eat heavy metal and s.h.i.t, huh?"

"Like the finest chocolate," Alexander says, still smiling. He wants to run, to scratch this man from his path and fight for sunlight. He hates this place.

The puker grimaces. "No kidding? So what comes out the other end?"

A stupid question. Alexander imagines the worms in their liquid heat, sucking in filth and growing large and strong. It is the bacterial strain in them, this unexpected and fortuitous ability to process sludge without creating any. Alexander would say that it defies the laws of nature, except Dr. Reynolds has a.s.sured him there is waste- only, it is processed at an extremely slow rate, released in nontoxic dribbles. Very alluring. Very practical.

Very dangerous.

The government has been given reams of paper on this subject: data and speculation, photographs and samples. Nothing has been held back, nothing, but this fool- this dangerous fool who is their liaison- remains ignorant. Alexander cannot stand it.