QWARD
Kendall Carson scrutinized the infoscreen mounted on
his desk, carefully reading every word of the story displayed
there. He weighed
the impact each phrase might have on the average reader of
the Diurnal Globe.
The story itself was brief, only a paragraph long after
the headline:
Ultraman Thwarts Revolutionaries’ Activities
Dateline:
Midway City
– A group of eight Revolutionaries attempting to incite rebellion
in this area were unsuccessful due to the timely arrival of
Ultraman this morning.
The Revolutionaries,
shouting slogans such as “Down with Sinestro!” and “Free Qward
Now!” were seen driving through the city and offering contraband
weapons to citizens.
Ultraman
flew to the scene, ripped the vehicle in half by hand, and
melted the weapons with his heat vision.
The Revolutionaries
were quick to scatter and only two escaped with their lives.
Carson, also known as Ultraman of the Crime Syndicate,
thought for a moment and began to make notes for changing
the story. He
decided to change “attempting” to “with intentions” in order
to convey that even a thought of resistance was as much an
offense as acting upon it.
“Due to the timely arrival of Ultraman” would of course
have to be changed to “thanks to the timely arrival of Ultraman,”
to remind the miserable wretches to be grateful for their
continued existence.
Carson deleted the quoted slogans of the Revolutionaries;
he had not spent time and energy crushing them only to spread
their insidious messages for them.
Finally he altered the final sentence to read:
The Revolutionaries
were quick to scatter, but all were killed before making good
their escape.
Ultraman enjoyed his job as head censor for Qward’s
official news outlet.
It ensured that his press coverage was always flattering
and never embarrassing.
The two Revolutionary maggots who had evaded him that
morning would probably be caught and killed soon enough, but
the Diurnal Globe’s readership would never need to know that.
All that they needed to know was that the Crime Syndicate
was a force to be reckoned with.
An ultrasonic beeping caught Ultraman’s attention.
His CSA communicator, clipped to his belt under his
jacket, was signaling him, which could mean only one thing.
Kendall Carson stood up from his desk, turned to the
window, and flew out over the city streets, shedding his business
suit to reveal his blue costume beneath.
As he made his way toward the temple of Sinestro, Ultraman
made a mental note to have the writer of the Midway City story
roughed up to be taught a lesson.
A story so in need of censoring should never have reached
the head censor’s desk in the first place.
Thomas Wayne, Jr., the Syndicator known as Owlman,
filled and emptied his lungs rapidly in ragged, heaving breaths.
He loomed over Gina White, the young girl who acted
as Owlman’s sidekick, Redbird.
The flesh around her left eye was the shiny purple
of raw meat, swollen almost completely closed.
Blood trickled from both nostrils and the right corner
of her mouth. Gina
was making a valiant effort not to cry, but she was failing.
“You stole it.
Say it,” Owlman hissed at his young ward.
Redbird sniffled, “But … but … no …”
Her voice cracked as she formed the words.
“You LIE!” Owlman screamed, savagely driving the heel
of his boot into Redbird’s breastbone.
The girl cried out in agony as she tried to roll over
onto her hands and knees to crawl away.
Owlman ranted on, his voice echoing throughout the
Owl’s Nest, “You lie to me!
I invented stealing as an art form, stupid girl, and
you actually think that I don’t know when you’ve been stealing
from me?”
Redbird whimpered pitifully as she struggled to move
away from Owlman’s assault.
Owlman composed himself, lowering his feathered, cowl-covered
head and drawing his midnight blue cape around him.
He watched Redbird struggle weakly on hands and knees
to put distance between them; she had only managed a few feet.
“Come back here,” he commanded Redbird.
Redbird stopped mid-crawl, caught helplessly in Owlman’s
mental control. Her
crying transformed into sobs of terror as she pulled herself
upright and slowly turned around to face her mentor. Her
legs twitched as she stepped towards him, the only indication
that she put up any resistance to his psychic commands.
Momentarily Redbird was standing directly before Owlman,
her bloody nose an inch from his chest.
“On your knees,” Owlman ordered.
Redbird’s sobbing continued, yet she complied, no longer
in control of her actions.
Owlman ran the gloved fingers of his left hand through
Gina’s short blond hair, then grabbed a fistful and pulled
her head as far back as he could.
“Admit that you stole my laser lockpicking tool,” Owlman
insisted menacingly.
His mental control of Redbird held only her body in
check, while allowing her to speak for herself. A psychically
forced confession would rob the moment of any satisfaction. Owlman waited
for the words.
Unfortunately for Gina White, Owlman had pulled her
head back so far her throat muscles were taut against her
vocal cords and she could do little more than gurgle.
Tears continued to stream from her eyes as she struggled
to speak. Owlman
grew impatient and threw his right knee into Redbird’s face
hard enough to produce a satisfying crunch as her nose broke
in two places. Redbird
wailed miserably, and Owlman released his grip on her hair.
Redbird fell forward onto the floor of the Owl’s Nest.
“I stole it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I stole it, I did,
I’m sorry …” Redbird moaned as she cupped her hands to her
bloody face. Her
babbling trailed off as she lost consciousness.
Owlman contemplated his sidekick, defenseless before
him. In reality,
she was always defenseless before him, the only variable being
how often Owlman chose to take advantage of that fact.
He considered taking advantage of her unconsciousness
now, when his CSA communicator attached to his utility belt
began to beep. He
would have to answer the summons and leave Redbird’s further
punishment for another time.
Owlman headed for the exit from the Owl’s Nest, when
something on his workbench caught his eye, a spanner which
didn’t lay flat in its place.
He approached the bench, lifted the spanner, and saw
his laser lockpicking tool underneath it.
Dimly he remembered working on the small tool previously,
and having to leave unexpectedly on CSA business with his
workbench in relative disarray.
So, his laser lockpicking tool had been merely misplaced,
and not stolen by Redbird after all.
Owlman shrugged as he exited the Owl’s Nest, absentmindedly
pressing a signal button on his utility belt that would alert
his butler that medical attention was needed in the Nest.
The butler would patch Redbird up, and Owlman would
think no more of it.
Billy Ray Miller stood in his uncle’s dirty bedroom,
surrounded by unwashed clothes, plates and cups from half-eaten
meals, and various pieces of unrecognizable debris.
The room had only been half so messy when Billy Ray
arrived, but he had been intent on finding a certain article
of clothing, which he now held in his hands.
Billy Ray held the red and yellow costume at arm’s
length and eyed it greedily.
A few times in his life, when his uncle had mocked
him for aspiring to villainous greatness, Billy Ray had fantasized
some variation on this moment.
It was sweeter than he had imagined.
Billy Ray had once been known as Slipstream, a member
of an inferior incarnation of the Crime Syndicate of America.
By contrast his uncle, Jonathan Wickes, was better
known as Johnny Quick, one of the founders of the original,
feared and respected
CSA. Billy
Ray had always been bitterly jealous of his uncle for that
twist of fate, and probably had been the happiest person in
Qward when Johnny Quick had failed to be resurrected with
the rest of the CSA.
The mantle of Johnny Quick was now his for the taking,
and helping himself to his uncle’s old spare costume sealed
the deal.
Billy Ray donned the costume and stood in front of
the full-length mirror attached to the bedroom door. “Damned if Ah
don’t look gooder’n grits!” he chuckled as he admired the
way the yellow lightning bolts cut across his red-clad body.
“Damned if Ah don’t!”
He knew then that the past few months had been worth
it. Doing rudimentary
research to determine the whereabouts of his surviving relatives
had been painfully boring, but superspeed made the task at
least go by quickly.
Billy Ray had then traveled to the homes of each family
member, and killed them all.
Two cousins and an aunt he had murdered in their sleep,
vibrating his hand at superspeed through their bodies and
vibrating out vital organs.
A half-brother and nephew he disposed of by running
circles around their trailer until the air was whipped into
a tornado that demolished the structure and those inside.
Finally a grand-uncle’s house exploded
when Billy Ray tore open the gas line in the basement and
heated the pipe with high-speed vibrations until the gas ignited.
Now he was the last of his kinfolk, which meant that
no one would ever take his new criminal identity away from
him. Someone else
in his bloodline might have someday developed their own connection
to the speed force, and made a run for the prize.
But Billy Ray had insured that would never be.
The plan to eliminate other claimants to Johnny Quick’s
legacy had been so all-consuming, in fact, that Billy Ray
had little idea what to do with himself now that he had assumed
the role of Syndicator.
He stared at himself in the mirror, hoping something
would occur to him, when a vibration in the earpiece of his
helmet interrupted his thoughts.
The vibrations were so fast only someone with superspeed
would ever notice them, and Billy Ray realized it must be
the CSA signal device built into his uncle’s … no, built into
HIS costume. And
now that he was Johnny Quick, he would have to answer the
signal.
Johnny Quick attuned himself to the vibrational frequency
and discovered he could follow it back to its source.
In a blur of red and yellow he streaked out of his
uncle’s house and ran for the point of origin.
The Weaponers of Qward had recently experienced a drastic
expansion of their ranks.
As Sinestro prepared to launch an invasion of Earth,
his armed forces swelled in numbers with new recruits signing
up every day. The
result was a massive but decidedly inefficient fighting force,
and training constituted the vast majority of the days and
nights of the Weaponers.
Superwoman’s Amazonian training made her an abundantly
qualified instructor.
She stood on a makeshift platform, navy blue knee-high
boots planted shoulder width apart, fists resting on the hips
of her skimpy navy blue costume, yellow half-cape snapping
smartly in the wind.
She surveyed a training field where two armored battalions
of Weaponers were about to engage in mock combat. The weapons were
real enough – two-handed pole-arm blasters – but the energy
level of their charges had been diminished.
A Weaponer on the receiving end of one of the blasts
would feel a great deal of pain, but would not be killed outright,
under normal circumstances
The battalions charged across the field at one another,
sub-lethal blazes of energy searing the air between them.
Superwoman’s eyes narrowed as her battle-trained senses
took in every thrust and parry, every hit and miss.
The battalions met mid-field and the surrounding area
echoed with the sounds of pole-arms colliding with Qwardian
battle armor and the non-stop buzzing of energy blasts.
Many Weaponers on both sides were brought to the ground,
and those behind them simply trampled them underfoot to continue
advancing towards the opposite side.
Superwoman observed the combat until her eyes fixed
upon two sparring Weaponers in particular, at which point
she flew at top speed into the fray.
Weaponers all around her stopped in mid-swing as she
alighted beside an especially tall and muscular Weaponer straddling
a fallen opponent.
“What is your name?” she asked the Weaponer.
“Maroq,” he answered proudly.
Superwoman raised her voice so all the Weaponers could
hear her. “Did
everyone see what Maroq just did?”
She waited a moment through the inevitable murmurs
as Maroq’s chest swelled, then continued, “He parried the
attack of his opponent, then stepped back, lowered the head
of his pole-arm blaster, and fired into his opponent’s chest.”
Superwoman’s eyes bore into Maroq’s and she asked him,
“Why did you do that?”
“I … I …,” Maroq began, unsure what explanation was
required.
Superwoman began to scream at him, “Your weapon was
already aimed at his head!
You had a point-blank attack and you passed it up!
Look at him,” she gestured at the fallen Qwardian on
the ground, “is he still breathing?”
“Yes …,” Maroq answered uncertainly.
“HE SHOULDN’T BE!” Superwoman bellowed, as she tore
the pole-arm out of Maroq’s slack hand.
Superwoman touched the barrel of the pole-arm to Maroq’s
left cheek and fired.
A blinding flash engulfed Maroq’s head and he staggered
backwards. Superwoman
fired again, driving Maroq to the ground, and fired again,
never allowing the pole-arm to break contact with Maroq’s
face, and fired again, at the part of Maroq’s head where his
face used to be.
Superwoman turned around slowly to face the assembled
ranks of Weaponers.
“Mercy,” she announced loudly, “is not an established
tenet of the Weaponers.”
She tossed the pole-arm to the ground with casual contempt.
“Do I make myself understood?”
“YES!” The
upraised cry from the Weaponers was immediate.
Superwoman took to the air with a curt “Carry on,”
for the troops, and began to make her way to her observation
stand, when her CSA signal device in her earrings began to
beep. She cast
a final glance at the newly-inspired Weaponers on the ground
below and altered her course, to fly to the Temple of Sinestro.
EARTH
In the skies west of Las Vegas, several green energy
signatures blazed overhead on a direct bearing for Coast City.
Leading the way were two halos around human figures,
one smooth and bright green, the other fiery and a deeper
jade hue. Hal
Jordan and Alan Scott talked as they flew.
“John already took me to task for not being very sociable
back at Warrior’s,” Jordan admitted.
“So I should really say that it’s great to see you
again, Alan.”
“I suppose it’s good to be seen,” Scott replied in
a non-committal fashion.
Jordan regarded his companion with a disappointed look,
then pressed on, “I see that I’m really going to have to get
used to everyone’s reservations about me in the wake of that
Parallax insanity.
From what I’ve learned so far I can almost understand
the condemnation in everyone’s eyes.
Even with Ganthet’s explanation, that Sinestro cloned
me somehow and then framed me while destroying the Corps,
I know it’s hard to look at me and not be reminded of Parallax.”
Jordan turned his head toward the horizon and was silent
for a moment. When
he finally continued, he said, “I really hoped you’d be on
my side, though, Alan.”
“Hal,” Scott answered, “look at me.”
Jordan turned his head to face his old friend again
as Scott said, “To be perfectly honest with you, I never really
believed Parallax was the Hal Jordan I had always known.
Even after the Coast City tragedy, I knew his actions
were incompatible with the man you would always be.
I was glad to see Parallax gone – and I’m glad to see
you back.” Scott’s
expression became intensely serious.
“Still, I always thought you had a swelled head, Jordan.
‘Welcome home, Hero,’ would only have made that worse,
so I opted not to throw a ticker-tape parade for your return.”
Jordan cocked his head questioningly at Scott, who
allowed one corner of his mouth to curl up in a wry smile. Jordan shook
his head and laughed, then barrel-rolled a few turns in the
air.
Directly behind the first two Green Lanterns of Earth
flew Ganthet and John Stewart, similarly engaged in conversation
and draped in emerald energy.
“I still don’t understand how I was able to fire off
that energy back at Warrior’s,” Stewart admitted. “I didn’t think
I had that kind of power in me anymore.”
“The power bequeathed to you by the being known as
Parallax is deep and abiding, John Stewart,” Ganthet explained.
“And you yourself are uniquely well-suited as its vessel.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I’m more than a little
concerned about that very thing – the fact that this power
originated with Parallax,” Stewart confessed.
“I remember Hal coming to me during the Final Night
– except it wasn’t Hal, really, and I guess it ended up not
being such a final night, either.
It was before Parallax sacrificed himself to save the
sun, so his intentions may have been noble … but at the base
of it all Parallax was just a creation of Sinestro. How do we know
that this power in me isn’t all part of Sinestro’s master
plan to destroy us all?
Should I act as if I didn’t have the power and not
make use of it?”
Ganthet replied, “By the time Parallax appeared to
you, John Stewart, I had already merged with that being, and
you may rest assured that it was I who orchestrated the endowment
of your power, and not Sinestro.
You have in your lifetime wielded the ring of a Green
Lantern and the very power of a Guardian of the Universe,
John Stewart. Do
not shy away from the power you now possess, whatever form
it may take, for you are needed by this universe more than
ever.”
Stewart nodded resolutely.
“If you say so.
I’m not one to let down a universe that needs me.”
Bringing up the rear of the flying formation was a
massive green vehicle.
Its body was shaped identically to an Oan power battery
lying on its back, except for the top which tapered into a
nose cone. Two
long, swept-back wings were grafted onto either side, as well
as a smaller tailfin atop the battery’s base.
The vehicle had four wheels, two under each wing, and
the hubcap of each wheel bore the symbol of the Green Lantern
Corps.
Within the passenger compartment were three riders.
Kyle Rayner sat in the driver’s seat, arm resting lightly
over the steering wheel, even though the construct was propelled
via Rayner’s willpower through his ring.
Beside him sat Guy Gardner, and occupying most of the
back seat was Kilowog.
“You been spending way too much time with Bats, kid,”
Gardner commented.
“See, that’s the problem with that whole Justice League
scene, no room for a man to be his own man …”
“That was almost convincing, Guy,” Rayner cut him off.
“What about you, Kilowog?
You dig the Lanternmobile, don’t you?
Isn’t this traveling in style?”
“It ain’t bad,” Kilowog agreed.
His eyes cast around the cabin, noticing all of the
Corps pictograms – on the steering wheel, the backs of the
headrests, even the knobs on the dashboard.
“How you doin’, Kyle?
You really seem t’be takin’ to this whole Corps thing
pretty all-out.”
“Yeah, I know,” Kyle nodded.
“It’s weird, I never knew what it was like to be in
the Corps. And
Hal and I, we don’t have any connection to each other.
I tangled with Parallax more than anybody, and it always
made me think the Corps must be totally messed up, to have
done that to a guy who was a hero. Now it turns
out that the Corps, the Guardians, they didn’t break Hal after
all. He’s back,
you’re back, Ganthet’s back … I don’t know, it just feels
right … the world needs the Corps to handle something they’ve
handled before, and we’ve just about got ourselves a Corps
again and …”
“Take it from an old timer, Kyle,” Kilowog interrupted,
“it ain’t the Corps again yet.
It ain’t even close.
Lookit me, I don’t even have a ring o’ my own.”
As Kilowog finished speaking, a vision of Ganthet’s
head appeared in the cabin.
“Your complaint is one of a number we must attend to
at the moment, Kilowog,” Ganthet informed them. “Kyle Rayner,
land at once so that we may do so.”
The blue-skinned face faded from view.
Kyle mentally directed the Lanternmobile toward the
ground. “Now
that, that might take some getting used to,” he muttered.
Presently the seven of them stood on the desert floor
in a loose circle.
Ganthet began, “We must all be fully prepared to face
the challenges ahead, and the forces opposing us are many
and powerful. I
would not have any of you unarmed.”
With that he cupped his small blue hands loosely together
and an emerald starburst flashed between them. When Ganthet
opened his hands, a power ring sized for Kilowog’s finger
rested in his palm.
Kilowog took the ring reverently and slid it on the
middle finger of his right hand.
Ganthet continued, “The ring is not yet charged, Kilowog,
but you may do so using me as a source of energy.”
Hal Jordan raised his ring hand, and looked carefully
at his own power ring.
“I may be just about out of juice, too, Ganthet.
Can you recharge us both?”
“Of course,” the Guardian replied.
“Almost doesn’t seem right without my battery,” Jordan
sighed as he stepped forward.
“That can be accommodated,” Ganthet said, holding out
his hands. More
emerald energy shimmered above them and coalesced into a green
power battery. Kilowog
and Jordan looked at each other, touched their rings to the
battery, and recited their Oath together:
“In brightest day, in blackest night,
No evil shall escape my sight,
Let those who worship evil’s might,
Beware my power, Green Lantern’s light!”
Kilowog and Jordan lowered their rings, and Ganthet
turned to John Stewart as the power battery disappeared. Ganthet’s eyes
were closed and he seemed to take a moment to steady himself,
but soon he resumed his speech.
“John Stewart, your nature allows you to manipulate
the energies of the Oans without a focus such as the power
ring. My time
in union with Parallax was too brief to completely free this
potential within you, but I will do so now.”
Ganthet lowered his head and raised both his hands
high, aiming his palms at Stewart’s chest.
Emerald light suffused the air all around Ganthet and
Stewart, and Stewart’s body went rigid as the Guardian’s energy
coursed through him. The others could
only stand and watch as the process played out. In a span of
heartbeats, the light began to fade, Stewart’s body relaxed
and Ganthet lowered his arms.
“It is finished,” Ganthet said with great effort.
“And now … now …”
The Guardian swooned, and collapsed on the sand.
Stewart knelt quickly at his side.
“Aw, hell. Don’t
it just figure,” Gardner groaned.
“The little guy burned himself out.”
“What’s the matter, Guy,” Rayner inquired, “Upset that
you didn’t get a chance to ask the Wizard for a brain?”
Guy Gardner raised an eyebrow at Rayner in mock astonishment.
“You keep it up, kid, and you can laugh yourself all
the way to the hospital.”
“Knock it off,” Stewart ordered, cradling Ganthet in
his arms. “We
have to send someone back with Ganthet, to keep him somewhere
safe. Who’s
it going to be?”
“Ahh, relax,” Gardner replied, pulling a cellular phone
out of his pocket.
“I got it covered.
I’ll have my head bouncer come out here and grab Ganthet
for us. No reason
for anyone to miss all the fun.”
As Guy started dialing, Alan Scott asked him, “This
bouncer of yours, you trust him with something like this?”
“Oh yeah,” Gardner assured him, raising the phone to
his ear. “He’s
a real solid guy.”
QWARD
Sinestro stood in the uppermost chamber of the Temple,
hands clasped behind his back.
He faced the main wall of the chamber, which was dominated
by a larger-than-life portrait of Sinestro, undisputed ruler
of Qward. Sinestro
began stroking his goatee thoughtfully, and said aloud, “Do
you think this portrait adequately captures my grandiose stature?”
Seated at the conference table in the middle of the
room was the Syndicator known as Power Ring.
He answered immediately, “Yes, obviously it does.”
Sinestro turned his head to glare vexedly at Power
Ring. “I don’t
think it does. I’m
thinking of having a more talented artist commissioned to
paint a replacement.
This time I want it larger … and perhaps I’ll have
the artist portray me in king’s robes, with a golden armored
breastplate, to truly convey my legendary sovereignty.
What do you think of that?”
Power Ring unhesitatingly replied, “I think that would
be perfect. You
are right; the portrait you have now is unpardonably inferior
to what you’ve described.”
Sinestro smiled cruelly.
“You are a far better attendant to me than Hal Jordan
ever was, Power Ring.
You do not challenge me. You do not question
me. You acknowledge
that my way is not simply the best way but the only way.
I appreciate your dedication and discipline.”
Power Ring bowed his head slightly.
“I am your humble servant, lord.”
“Indeed …” Sinestro murmured, as motion at the room’s
large, open window caught his attention.
Ultraman flew in through the window first, followed
closely by Superwoman.
They landed on the floor and walked towards the conference
table, taking their seats.
Owlman swung on a line through the window next, gained
his footing and began to reel in the nylon cord. He approached
the table but stood behind a chair; Owlman never sat. Ultraman, Superwoman,
Owlman and Power Ring exchanged cursory greetings.
A rush of air at the window brought the room to stunned
silence as Johnny Quick ran up the outside of the Temple,
entered through the window and bolted to the middle of the
floor. The Syndicators
glared at him wordlessly, and Sinestro broke the silence first:
“Johnny Quick.
I thought you were dead.”
Johnny Quick snorted derisively.
“Thought wrong.
Ah ain’t plannin’ on dyin’ no time soon.
Ah’m just answerin’ the call of the Syndicate.
So what’s goin’ on?”
Power Ring pointed a finger at Johnny Quick and said,
“Wait, I know you.
You’re Slipstream, Johnny Quick’s nephew.
We don’t need any third-stringers here, kid, especially
not in their dead uncle’s costume.”
Johnny Quick scowled at Power Ring.
“Lookee here now. This here’s mah costume now, Ah’m
Johnny Quick from here on out, and ah’m one sumbitch you don’
wanna mess with ever. Y’all wanna try
to keep me out, why’n’tcha come and show me whatcha got.”
Ultraman stood up as Owlman reached for his utility
belt, but Sinestro raised one hand to halt them. “Enough,” the
Korugarian said, “of this pointless territoriality. I have no objection
to this Johnny Quick, and that is all the rest of you need
know.” Ultraman
seethed visibly, but sat down, and Owlman relaxed his stance
as well.
Johnny Quick gawked openly at Sinestro, then turned
to the Syndicators.
“Y’all’re takin’ orders from HIM?
That’s a joke, right? The Crime Syndicate
don’t take orders from nobody, nohow.”
“Have a care, Quick,” Sinestro warned icily.
“You would be best served to keep your mouth shut for
the moment, and see if you can’t learn something from your
elders.”
Johnny Quick seemed about to answer, but thought better
of it and meekly took a seat at the table. Sinestro spoke
to them, “I have gathered you here to undertake a simple mission
for me. The
return of Hal Jordan to the Earth plane has necessitated decisive
action, for he will surely make the undoing of my plans his
reason for being once he learns their full scope.
My Anti-Green Lantern prototypes were unable to stop
him, primarily because he is in the company of several other
Green Lanterns, and a Guardian.
But you, my elite enforcers,” he smiled poisonously
at the Syndicators, each in turn, “you should have little
trouble eliminating my Hal Jordan problem.”
Sinestro turned suddenly away from the table, again
fixated on the portrait of himself on the main wall. “You will leave
for Earth immediately,” he announced, dismissing them. As the Crime
Syndicate filed out of the room, Sinestro stared into his
own gigantic eyes in the portrait above.
Sinestro resolved to have the portrait redone as soon
as he received news of Jordan’s destruction.
He would want that moment of triumph captured for all
eternity.
EARTH
A red pickup truck pulled into view and bore down on
the assembled heroes after almost thirty minutes of waiting
in the desert. It
kicked up a good-sized rooster tail of dust as it approached
at high speed, and skidded to a stop yards short of the men
awaiting its arrival.
The driver’s door opened and a large robot stepped
out, dull gray from head to toe with a wide, smiling face.
“Sorry it took me so long, boss,” Lead of the Metal
Men apologized.
“Nah, nah, you made good time,” Guy Gardner assured
him.
John Stewart, carrying the still unconscious Ganthet,
approached Gardner and Lead.
“Just get him back to Warrior’s and keep him someplace
safe and out of sight, all right?” Stewart requested.
“Can do,” Lead answered.
He took Ganthet from Stewart and slid him into the
truck’s cab.
“All right, one less thing to worry about before we
invade Qward,” Hal Jordan said.
“The anti-freaking-matter universe,” Kyle Rayner shook
his head, then looked around and realized everyone had heard
him. “Which
I’m fine with, by the way.
New experiences, new planes of existence, it’s all
good.”
“Let’s get going,” Alan Scott said, rising into the
air in a cloud of green flames.
“One more thing,” Gardner insisted.
Turning to Lead, he asked, “Did you bring the bag I
asked you for?”
“You got it, boss,” Lead replied, reaching behind the
driver’s seat of the truck and pulling out a canvas bag.
“Muchos gracias,” Gardner said as he took the bag.
He reached in and pulled out a large hunting knife
in its sheath, which he tied onto his right thigh. He also pulled
out a snub-nosed pistol, which he tucked in the back waistband
of his jeans, and a sawed-off shotgun, which he held in his
right hand. He
tossed the bag back to Lead.
“Thanks, buddy.
Now get the little guy back to the bar, set him up
on the cot in my office, and stay near him.”
“Got it,” Lead nodded, climbing into the truck and
starting the engine.
Soon he was driving back to Vegas.
“All right, I’m ready,” Gardner announced.
“’cept that I’m the only one here who still can’t fly
under his own power.
And I hate the way Rayner drives.”
“C’mon, Guy,” Kilowog said, creating a green flying
harness around Gardner and lifting him into the air.
Within moments the six Green Lanterns were flying westward
again. Nevada
desert soon gave way to California farmland, followed by California
suburbs and cities.
By the time they could hear the pounding of the Pacific
surf, Coast City Memorial Park was below them.
Rayner pulled even with Gardner as they approached
the park. “Now, come on,
Guy,” Rayner implored, “was that really a smoother ride than
the Lanternmobile?”
“One hundred percent,” Gardner answered smugly.
“I could teach you a thing or two about the finer points
of power ring transportation, y’know.”
“I’m sure you co-o-o-o –”
Rayner’s reply was cut short as he began to plummet
at breakneck speed toward the ground.
“Whoa!” Gardner shouted.
“Kilowog! Catch
Kyle, he’s out of control!”
Kilowog saw Rayner’s falling body and used his power
ring to create a huge pillow in Rayner’s path.
Before contact, though, Rayner turned 90 degrees, shot
past the green energy pillow, turned 90 degrees again and
continued headlong for the earth below. Jordan, Stewart
and Scott noticed now as well but were too late, as Rayner
plowed into the park, digging a deep furrow with his body.
Rayner raised his head from the dirt and attempted
to get to his feet, but found he could not make his arms and
legs obey. “What
is wrong with me?” Rayner asked aloud.
“Only that you are no longer in control,” Owlman answered,
stepping out from a grove of trees and approaching the trench
where Rayner lay. “I
control your mind, and through it your body.”
Owlman reached into a pouch on his utility belt and
pulled out a set of spiked brass knuckles.
“Though soon enough, there won’t be very much recognizable
that’s left of your body.”
John Stewart began to dive for Rayner’s inert form,
and was about to reach him when a red and yellow comet streaked
towards him and tackled him to the ground.
“Yee-haah!!!” Johnny Quick whooped with sadistic glee.
“Ah ain’t had a chance to go coon huntin’ in way too
long. You gonna
wish you hadn’t come up from the fields t’day, darkie!”
Ultraman rocketed towards Alan Scott, yelling as he
came. “You’re all going
to be crushed to pulp!
You’re no match for us!
Especially not you, old man!” Both of Ultraman’s
fists connected with Scott’s midsection and drove him backwards
through the sky.
Superwoman had emerged from the grove airborne as well,
and flew towards Kilowog.
Meeting him midair, she spun in place, landing a roundhouse
kick across the alien’s jaw.
Kilowog’s head snapped back and forth.
Hal Jordan watched the ambush unfold and knew there
was one member of the Crime Syndicate unaccounted for.
He scanned the ground, and tried to penetrate the cover
of the trees below, looking for …
A green sphere enclosed him, and he turned around to
see Power Ring generating it.
“Looks familiar, doesn’t it, Jordan?” Power Ring sneered. “A lot like the
bubble you trapped me and the others in when you banished
us between dimensions, huh?
I’d love to repay the favor, but I think that’d just
be a little too good for you.”
Power Ring constricted the sphere and piled weight
onto its crushing mass.
“Hope you’ll
understand if I just kill you instead …” Power Ring laughed
humorlessly.
TO
BE CONTINUED … !!!
NEXT
ISSUE: The Green Lantern Corps in an all-out fight for
their lives against the Crime Syndicate of America – need
we say more? All
right, Sinestro reveals more of his twisted plans, as well!
Don’t miss a moment of the mayhem and madness – it’s
mmmm, mmmm good!
