“The TruBatman Show,” Part 1

Originally published July 10, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1286

“The TruBatman Show”

We have a world that is possessed of infinite capability for amusement. Our people can sit for hours, even days, wrapped in worlds of holovids and endless possibilities. And I, one of the greatest scientists of our age—have decided that that is wrong. That we have lost touch with reality. Because we have become so enamored with fiction—we have lost sight of the simple, enriching joy of fact. This was my first, greatest concern when I embarked on this grand adventure which has captivated millions. We wanted it—and we needed it…

Bruce Wayne sat at the edge of the lake, looking down at the sky. It was a perfect, cloudless day as reflected in the lake’s flat surface. Bruce stared at his own image for a time: the straight black hair, the squared-off jaw. When he was a child, he would try and move faster than his own shadow or reflection, endeavoring to see if he could trick it somehow. Now Bruce raised his hands and clapped them together with his reflection. Nope. Still hadn’t managed it.

Then he heard something from overhead: The telltale whistling of something falling. He looked up and saw a plummeting white form, apparently a goose. It was coming directly at him, and Bruce backrolled out of the way as the goose crashed heavily to the ground, feathers flying from the impact.

Bruce crouched down and examined the bird’s carcass. Something seemed off somehow, although he wasn’t quite sure what it could possibly be. He lifted the goose’s head, stared into its eyes…

“What the—?” he murmured.

There appeared to be some sort of apparatus in the goose’s eye. With slight trepidation, Bruce touched the eye. It was hard and cool, and Bruce started tapping on it with more confidence. Yes, it was definitely a mechanism of some sort. He pried at the eye and it came out in his hand. A clear lens peered out at him.

“A camera lens?” he said in surprise. He hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been that. A quick inspection of the goose revealed what he had already surmised, and that was that the entire creature was mechanical. It was a remarkably sophisticated device. This wasn’t some limited-action mechanoid like one would find at the average theme park. The goose, when it had been operational, would have been capable of flight, of simulating life down to the smallest detail—everything.

What fascinated Bruce beyond what the creature would have been able to do was the materials with which it was made. It wasn’t possible to be absolutely sure just with a preliminary glance, but it seemed to him that the goose was constructed not from Earthly design or materials. Then he noticed what appeared to be some sort of label on the inside, but it was with lettering that was not even remotely Terran. Bruce was quite sure of that; he had passing familiarity with practically every language spoken on the planet, and these letters were completely foreign to him.

Nonetheless, they looked—familiar.

Alfred was clearly rather startled when Bruce entered the Batcave minutes later, the mechanical goose slung under his arm. “I was unaware that you were bringing a guest for dinner, sir,” he commented.

Bruce didn’t answer, instead spreading the mechanical goose upon an examining table. He sliced it completely open to get a better, unobstructed view of its innards. As he did so, he pulled out a miniature camera and took several close-up photos of the unusual lettering.

“May I ask, sir, what is the purpose of this?” Alfred inquired with his customary politeness.

“I think,” Bruce said, “this thing was spying on me. But I’m not sure what it is, or where it came from.”

“It seems a waste of your time and talent to fiddle with it any longer than necessary, sir,” Alfred said. “In fact, you may simply want to put it aside…”

Bruce wasn’t listening. Instead he jacked the camera into the computer, downloaded the images into the database and ran a comparison. “I know that lettering,” he muttered. “I wonder if it could be…”

A moment later, the computer gave him his answer. “I was right. It’s Kryptonian. I’ve seen enough of it the times I was at Superman’s fortress.”

“Perhaps we should bring the item to Superman. Better still—I shall arrange for him to have it immediately.” Alfred started to gather the assorted parts. “There are several excellent shipping companies who will bring it to him quite promptly…”

“Alfred, what’s the matter with you? Put it down; I’m not done.” Bruce was busy running the lettering through a decryption program.

Suddenly Tim Drake charged into the Batcave. “Bruce, the signal. The signal’s in the sky. We’re needed.”

Under ordinary circumstances, this announcement would have been more than enough to pull Bruce away from whatever he was doing. But as he started to rise from his chair in front of the computer, he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He saw Alfred look…

…relieved.

Slowly he turned and fixed Alfred with a steady gaze. He was about to say something—but then thought better of it. “Tim, we’ll head out in a few minutes.”

“But Bruce!” There was surprising urgency in Tim’s voice. He didn’t sound excited as he normally did. He sounded—nervous.

“I said, in a few minutes.” He turned back to the computer…

…and to his astonishment—it had frozen. All work had come to a halt.

“Oh dear,” Alfred said sadly. “The computer seems to have developed a… Bat-bug. I shall endeavor to attend to it while you respond to the signal.”

Bruce tried to restart the computer, but it resisted his efforts. He let out a sigh, then reached for a pad and pencil. “Have to do this the old-fashioned way. I remember some of the letters—should be able to get some of this worked out…”

“Bruce!” Tim was pulling at his shoulder. “Will you c’mon! We’ve got to…”

“I think it’s the Joker, sir,” Alfred said gravely.

But Bruce wouldn’t be distracted from his chore. It wasn’t as if Kryptonian was a direct letter-for-letter code, corresponding to any particular Earth language, but there were some root similarities to some of the more ancient forms of writing. Bruce had always wondered whether there weren’t some early Kryptonian colonists or explorers, centuries agone, who had come to Earth for who-knew-what-purpose. Kryptonians who might have provided the basis for assorted myths of mighty strong men. Perhaps the titan who brought fire to mankind had done so with heat vision from his eyes. Who would ever know for sure?

After a few minutes of trying assorted letter combinations and good old fashioned wracking-his-brains, Bruce stared at the paper, covered with cross-outs and scribbles. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said.

“What’s it say, Bruce?”

“It says,” and Bruce looked at them with narrowed eyes, “One Goose—Property of The TruBatman Show.”

“It’s a joke. That’s got to be it,” Tim said, looking to Alfred for confirmation. “That’s all. It’s just a joke of some weird kind.”

“Really.” Bruce rose from his chair and stared thoughtfully at Tim and Alfred.

“Come on, Bruce, let’s get going.”

“All right,” he said after a moment’s thought, “but after we’ve attended to whatever we’re needed for—I think I’ll be doing some further examination of this ‘joke.’ ”

We had no one but ourselves to blame, I suppose. We had trained him to be The World’s Greatest Detective. We should have realized that, given the slightest opportunity—he would start to see through it. There had been close calls before—most notably the Bat-mite nightmare when that uncontrolled pest got into the middle of the show. But this—this mechanical failure had brought us to our greatest crisis. And it was going to get worse—unless we could stop it.

—To be Continued—

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.