I. JULIAN

His father had long had a list of names for his potential sons -- Alexander, Julian, Napoleon, Xerxes. Because he possessed a fiery and imaginative ambition, the names gave no quarter where fashion was concerned; because he was exacting and analytical, they would be bestowed in alphabetical order.

It was probably just as well that only two Luthor sons took these names to the school playground, and that the alphabet had been kind to them.

Lex remembered when Julian was a toddler -- the wary eyes that followed Lionel’s big adult hand as it swung down to stroke his cheek, as though even then Julian were not sure of his welcome in this house. No more than Lex was, for the Metropolis mansion was the civilized equivalent of some minefield in a country where wars never truly ended, and to survive and thrive you learned to watch every signal. Julian had copied Lex in those days, and Lex had taken him aside, behind closed doors when the nannies and tutors were gone, to coach him in what to say and do.

He’d loved Julian then, in an uncomplicated way. When had that changed? When had the Lionel voice in his head gone from saying, “Take care of Julian, Alexander,” to “Watch out for Julian, Alexander”?

Maybe it was when those dinners at home had gone from lessons in deportment to cockfights over the white linen tablecloth. Red wine in Dad’s glass like spilled blood, and Julian, opposite, older now, beautiful and composed as he answered Lionel’s test questions – with a gentle, infuriating smile on the ones that Lex had just blown. Lex had been spoiled, he knew; unused to real competition. Lionel had been thrilled to throw his brilliant younger son against the older.

“Explain entailments to me,” Lionel said one evening over his glass of blood.

“Property is limited to a specified selection of heirs,” Lex said. “It’s an old enough concept; fairy tales are full of younger sons who don’t inherit and have to go out into the forest to seek their fortune.” He didn’t look at Julian.

“Indeed. And what about the French?”

Lex was silent. He hated these pop quizes. What the hell did real families talk about, anyway?

After waiting a discreet moment, Julian said, “The tradition in France was to share property equally among sons, as opposed to England, where estates were entailed on a line of succession through the oldest.”

Lionel gave one of those approving looks he never seemed able to call up for Lex. “Correct as usual, Julian.”

Julian smiled unreadably at Lex, who imagined plunging a fork through his brother’s throat. Lex didn’t mean anything by it; he’d been imagining the same thing about Lionel for years. It kept him from going crazy at the dinner table.

“And the result?”

“Sons in France were happier, I assume,” Lex told his father. Even at the age of sixteen he knew he could pack more sarcasm into a single look than most people could spell.

“And what happened to the property?”

“Logically, it would be broken into smaller pieces with each generation, until there was none left. Really, Dad, if you’re going to go from this to the split of the Roman Empire into east and west – ”

“Someone must always be disappointed if empires are to remain intact.” He gave them a heartily cheerful look, like a TV father proposing a fishing trip. “How do you suppose we should solve this?” He tipped back the wine glass for the last drop. “Eh? There’s always the Borgia way... or perhaps a nice game of Parcheesi...”

Julian was a precocious sociopath, anyway. He was good company when he chose to be, even though Lex hadn’t been able to tell what he was thinking since he was six. It was those private sessions with Lionel that really galled, though. The study door would close behind them, and Lionel would be all smiles when they emerged, his hand on Julian’s shoulder in a proprietary way.

No such personal attention for Lex, the hothouse flower, the freak, the boy who rubbed sunblock into his head every morning. In contrast, Julian was a weed – some exotic, flowering weed of the Amazon, with roots you couldn’t get at. Strong and perfect. Just what you’d want in a son.

Lex was nineteen. Two days after his birthday, he was in his bedroom, packing his own bags. Julian walked in, in the quiet, catlike Luthor way, wearing a black turtleneck. He sat on the bed, cross-legged, and watched.

“Can I have your comic collection?”

“I’m transferring to Princeton, I’m not making out my will.”

“Why?”

Lex glanced at the beautiful, opaque face. Why was not a question that was thrown around much in their world. He dropped a few CDs in the suitcase, thought a moment, and said, “Julian? What do you and Dad talk about in the study?”

“The future,” said Julian.

“Your future? My future? The future of the human race?”

Julian was silent. He said, “Are you transferring to get away from me?”

Christ. It was odd what a shock the question was. Lex had relied on the fact that Luthors communicated with each other in subtext; this was completely against etiquette.

He turned to get another sweater, keeping his face away from Julian’s line of sight. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, little brother.” When he turned back, he was confident that he showed nothing. “You can read the comics. Don’t touch the ones in plastic.”

Sometimes Lex thought his father had it all wrong. He clearly wanted to use Julian as a goad for Lex, a mechanical rabbit to keep him running fast and strong. His father’s psychology was brutal, but Lex wondered if it were accurate. Maybe if Julian weren’t there, Lex would have been less awkward, less self-conscious, more bold; maybe he would have finished college early and been eager to take on the world.

Finishing college, however, only meant a return to Metropolis, and to his brother. No point in hurrying that along. There was plenty to learn at Princeton. And then, Yale had a good graduate program...

Twenty-three years old. He felt like Michael Corleone when he got the call. “This is ridiculous, Lex,” his father said. “I’ve been patient.”

“I have a degree to complete,” Lex replied, as if he really believed he’d left that world behind. As if one kick of the spurs wouldn’t send him back into a fight to the death.

“Come home,” said Lionel. It was an order.

Julian had grown straight and tall, with eyes like the sea, able to lull you to sleep or suck all the breath from your body. “Welcome back,” he said, as Lex entered the vestibule with his bags.

Twenty-six. Lex had been in Smallville for two years. Dad treated it like the parable of the steward and the talents; send one son to a crap factory, and compare what he brings back with the best gifts of the other son.

Julian was still too young to have a crap factory of his own, though, and Lionel showed no inclination to be parted from him, so what precisely Lex’s stewardship would be compared with had not been shared with him. Really, though, you had to give Lionel credit for that – much more Orwellian this way; you never knew whether to expect grudging approval or mockery.

Smallville seemed to have an extraordinary number of accidents for so small a town, but Lex gave no more than minimal thought to the mystery; his mind was elsewhere. He flew along the back country roads in his cars, ignoring the stares, but he never became part of the town.

Dad came on his birthday. Lex had not been told to expect him, and only discovered his this uncalled-for honor when he was eight miles north of town, and it suddenly occurred to him that the car ahead looked oddly familiar. Generally Lionel took the helicopter or the limo, going for speed or the ability to work during the drive; but when he was in the mood, he could wield a sports car like a weapon, grinding out his aggression on the helpless gears.

From Lex’s point of view, it was meant to be a sedate drive back to the mansion. He wasn’t even sure his father had spotted him – not till he tried to pass.

The two Porsches took the curve outside the Benson place at 85, then pulled up to 120 on the straight line of Hickory Lane. They blasted past the Kent farm, Lionel in front, Lex gaining ground. A frightened cardinal took off from a fencepost in a blur of red, and Lex had the impression of some flannel-clad farmer standing, mouth open in shock, as they thundered past.

Lex moved into the oncoming lane to overtake Lionel. One-twenty. One-thirty. As they reached Turner’s Bridge, Lex saw an oil truck coming from the other direction. He hit the gas, hard -– knowing Lionel would be doing the same thing -– and then reality set in. Lex knew he could do a lot of things, but he couldn’t change the laws of physics through will alone. He braked and fell in behind his father’s car.

They reached the mansion at the now-vaguely-unreal speed of 35 miles an hour. The car doors slammed, one after the other. “You would have made it,” Lionel said, “if you hadn’t lost your nerve.”

A little revisionist mindfucking. No, he wouldn’t have made it; he’d have been chopped hamburger on a rural road, and that’s no way for a Luthor to make an exit.

(Wouldn’t he? Lex pictured the oncoming truck again, mentally reviewing the space between them... Stop it.)

“The same make and model of car, both in peak condition; what could be the difference? Ah, yes -– the quality of the driver. I begin to see why you begged off from extreme skiing; without the inner will, the body is a brittle shell.”

Really, the man was outrageous. For a second, Lex almost liked him.

Dinner was like old times. After Lionel had grilled Lex on the status of the plant, the amount of attention he’d paid to the acquisition of Bendell by LuthorCorp, and the sayings of Clauswitz on total war, his father seemed almost mellow.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring Julian along for Final Jeopardy,” said Lex.

Lionel smiled over the tiny, perfect square of chocolate mousse. “I considered it. Your brother’s at the lake house studying for finals.”

“Like Julian needs to study.”

“He’ll be graduating in a month,” Lionel remarked. He added, as though it were an afterthought, “I have an idea about that.”

Fuck.

“Oh?”

“Your tenure in Smallville has been… adequate.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad.”

“I’m thinking of posting Julian to Plant 26.”

“North Carolina? A bit far, isn’t it? You usually don’t let him out of your sight.” A crooked smile. “Almost as if you were afraid to.”

His father laughed delightedly. “Your brother’s old enough now to come into his own.”

“Really. And what ‘own’ would that be?”

“Why, that’s up to you, Lex. You’ll each get a plant of your own to run, like good boys.” Lionel put the crystal salt shaker next to the pepper, as though graphic accompaniments were necessary. “At the end of a year, we’ll see who’s increased profits the most. The winner gets groomed for his inheritance.”

“And the loser?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a commemorative pen set?”

“Dad –- ”

“Nothing. Ever. Both your trust funds were left to my discretion, and I’ll cut one of you off without a penny.”

“I see,” said Lex thoughtfully. “You want a fight to the death.”

“What else makes it worthwhile? You won’t show what you’re made of unless I force you, Lex. Consider yourself forced.” He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. “Oh, and did I mention? The plant of the loser will be closed, with minimal severance for its employees.”

Lex sat there silently, considering his options.

Lionel said, “I know you’ve got the killer instinct, Lex. You keep burying it. I won’t tolerate that any more.”

He stood, and Lex stood as well. “Morituri te salutamus,” said Lex ironically, giving a sketchy bow. We who are about to die salute you.

Lionel recognized the ritual response of the gladiator about to enter the arena, and he laughed, pleased. Lex watched him as he walked out of the room.

Killer instinct. Lex didn’t mind bringing it forth, but doing it for no other reason but the entertainment of the Emperor diminished the act.

He went to the library, opened his laptop, and brought up the numbers for Plant 26. Then he made a phone call.

“Hello,” said the voice at the other end.

He waited, unmoving, in his chair. The tick of the Swiss clock across the library was clearly audible, only deepening the silence.

“Lex?”

Who was he hiding from, really? “I just had an interesting discussion about commemorative pens.”

“Ah.” He could hear the slight smile in the voice.

“All right,” he said, “you’ve convinced me.”

“Mmm,” said the voice, a smug purr. “That’s what I love about you.”

Lex made sure that every minute of his remaining time with Lionel was accounted for. He took Gwen Tarquinio, an AVP at the plant, to bed, despite the complications it would certainly cause later. She had a reputation for plain speaking that could be useful, should a witness be necessary.

The next morning, over juice, yogurt, and fresh blueberries, Lionel paid court to Ms. Tarquinio. She blushed –- a fine look with her dark hair –- and cast confused glances toward Lex, who smiled blandly, excused himself, and went to the library.

He made another call.

“Hello,” said the voice at the other end.

“It’s me.”

“Where are we?”

“Still at breakfast. Are you sure you can – ”

“Leave it to me, Lex. Just keep your hands clean and smile like the good son you are.”

Lex started to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. “What if he leaves the Porsche and takes the limo?”

“You said he was feeling young and aggressive.”

“Yeah, but that might mean he’ll want to sit in the back, make a few phone calls, and destroy a small country.”

“So see that he doesn’t.”

Lex found he was reviewing his decision. He generally didn’t give in to second thoughts -– didn’t acknowledge them, if he could help it; they were nearly always spontaneous emotional mistakes that ruined the beauty of a good plan. Still -–

“Lex, tell me something.” The voice was low, breathy. For one shocked second, Lex could picture Julian sprawled back on the divan in the house on the lake, touching himself.

“What?” It came out sounding stranger than he’d intended.

“Does this turn you on as much as it does me?”

Lex hung up to the sound of his brother’s laugh.

Dusk. Lex stood at the top of the curve that led down to Ophiuchi Gorge. He could see, below, the crumpled piece of origami that used to be the hood of the car. Porsches have exceptionally soft front noses; when you buy a Porsche, they teach you a special technique for closing the hood, so your handprints don’t change the shape of the metal.

He found himself staring as though the shape of the crumple were some kind of beautiful fractal, packed with information just for him.

Julian, confident and graceful in his twenty years, walked over and joined him. “It’s a nice day for a white wedding,” he sang softly. The wind ruffled his dark hair as he looked over the edge.

Lex was silent.

Julian looked over at him and smiled. “Would you prefer a more literary quote? ‘When you look into the abyss...’”

“I get it, Julian. Till death do us part.” He glanced back at his brother and raised an eyebrow. “If you’re waiting for me to strike a match…”

“Sorry.” Julian leaned over the edge and focused on the car. A few seconds later the engine caught fire. “There. Nobody could survive that.”

“Huh. He’ll be clawing up from the grave, like the end of Carrie.”

“He’s gone, Lex. We’re free. Free!” The smile Julian turned on Lex was one he’d never seen before: full-throttle, radiant, incandescent. Where the fuck had he been hiding those? The sociopath reborn, into – what?

Lex turned back toward his car, and Julian followed. “You sure about this?”

“I’m not an administrator, Lex.” He whirled, laughing, arms out to catch the last of the sunlight, pleasure on his face without a trace of guilt. “I wouldn’t want to be. I’ll do my part and take my share; you were always going to inherit, anyway.”

“Maybe not.”

“That’s the paranoia he fed you talking. You believed that crap about Darwinian selection?” Julian shook his head. “If it were anything else but our family, you’d have seen the truth years ago. That man – ” (What happened to “father”? Lex thought.) “—would never have handed his empire to anyone but his own blood. Adopted sons are for pacing the real ones.”

There was a bitterness in the tone that had never been allowed out while Lionel lived. Lex said, “And yet, he treated you – ” With affection. “-- with more consideration than he did me.”

“Really. You know why Lionel was always smiling, when we came out of the study?” Lex looked at him. Julian’s voice was flat. “Because he had a piece of meteor embedded inside his watch. He’d insist we shake hands before we leave. He knew it would bring me to my knees.”

Christ. Lex wondered if it would have made any difference to the dynamic had the third Luthor son, Napoleon, lived. But then, maybe not; and two brothers were complication enough.

They reached the car. Lex started to open the door, and Julian slammed it shut again. Lex turned to find his brother standing almost pressed against him, arms braced against the car, imprisoning Lex in his personal space. Dark hair, golden skin, drowning eyes. Lex breathed in, hard, seeking air.

“You knew.”

“Of course I knew. You don’t look at someone like that because you’re checking on how well they did their term paper.”

The moment hung on the wind from the gorge. Lex didn’t move. Maybe they wouldn’t –

Julian leaned in and Lex’s mouth opened as naturally as if they’d been doing this for years. As though there were a law somewhere that said, however the bag were spilled, these two pieces were meant to fit together. It would have been so easy to be enemies, if the gravitational force toward alliance hadn’t been even stronger, hadn’t frightened Lex into leaving Metropolis and staying away until his brother grew up and Lionel forced them back together.

Julian pulled away, and it was still so natural, not like a first kiss at all; Lex found himself getting into the driver’s seat of the car without even questioning it. Julian sat beside him.

“What now?” It was the question that had rolled beneath the black sea of Lex’s nights in Princeton and New Haven. How could he have this certainty that if the two of them worked together, the world would change in some way – some exhilarating, frightening, perhaps horrifying way?

A turn of the head as Julian buckled the pointless seatbelt, and then Lex got one of the old, sly grins. Julian’s voice was dark and full of promise. “Anything we want.” Lex felt the shiver of it as he pulled out and headed for the highway. Julian settled his long legs in as comfortably as he could and leaned back. “Why ask me? I’m just the broad-strokes guy. You’re the mastermind.”

Lex laughed, and though the sun was going down it felt like the morning of the world. “There’ll be an emergency meeting of the Board of Directors tomorrow morning, and they’ll be voting on a new president by the end of the month. You need to use your powers to get dirt on every single one of them…”

They left Smallville at 110 miles an hour. Hurtling toward Metropolis and the world.

II. PETRIE DISH

No one could have faulted her professionalism as she entered the conference room. At thirty, she was the youngest person there, and if she felt under a spotlight, it was only because she was.

There was only one other woman present: McAvoy, from Navy Intelligence, in her sixties now. McAvoy spoke Mandarin as though to the Forbidden City born, and had spent two years in a Korean prison. Would she be a help or a hindrance? Naive, of course, to make assumptions based on gender.

Brass lamps gave enough illumination to compensate for the lack of windows. The red plastic folder that housed her report was there, set neatly in front of each member of the committee – every copy scrawled on now with the notes of the recipient, made individual with a haze of yellow post-its. And there was her audience: Lezak, from the CIA; Marty Grimes from the Pentagon; Printz and Hellerstein from the White House; and Rick Bayard from the Senate Committee that had been hastily formed, and that would never bear an official name.

Martha pushed a wing of red hair behind one ear, straightened her gray blazer, and met their eyes coolly. Her father’s twenty years in the CIA, with cover at a Metropolis law firm, made her an auxiliary member of this world, privileged in a way she might not have been by herself. Her two years in the Army made her reliable in their eyes. And her specialties of social psychology and anthropology made her the closest thing to an expert on aliens. She’d hammered that point home in her report – all very well for generals and administrators to give opinions, she’d implied; but how many had spent years wrapping their brains around ways of thought that weren’t normal to them?

Grimes said, “Miss Clark, we’ve read your report. It contradicts the majority recommendation of our advisors.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet you feel confident in your dissent.”

“I do, sir.”

McAvoy leaned back, misleadingly casual. “All right, Miss Clark. Tell us why the military experts are wrong, and you’re right.”

Martha hit a button, and a slide of the Subject appeared on the wall. He was playing with a set of colored building blocks she’d given him to test his spatial coordination. She’d been careful to make sure every test she gave was fun – even then, she’d been planning strategy. “The Subject gives every behavioral indication of being a human male, aged three to four -- ”

“And yet,” Bayard said, “The Subject is not a human male. And according to the report of our medical team, its cells are becoming imperceptibly denser each day. Soon we won’t be able to take blood from it. The day will come when we will be unable to kill it. It could grow into anything, and you would have us leave this creature alone until we’re at its mercy. Cut to the chase, Miss Clark. Why?”

“Why kill it,” said Martha, “when we can absorb it?” She brought up another slide; a monkey clinging to a washcloth dummy. “Primates seek contact with other primates. Given a situation where it’s shocked at irregular intervals, this monkey will hug a soft dummy and seek comfort from it, rather than from the wire dummy that dispenses milk. That need for physical contact is built into us, hard-wired; we can’t help ourselves.”

“The Subject,” said McAvoy patiently, “hardly qualifies as a primate. We’re closer to that monkey than we are to it.”

Another slide: the Subject, eyes trusting and needy, opening arms to be hugged. Martha gave McAvoy a cool look. “Tell me that again, ma’am. With all due respect.”

She hit them with statistics, case studies; feral children brought up in attics, unsocialized. The alien’s scores on IQ tests that were as culture-free as she could devise. “It has the same reflexes we do. The same emotional weaknesses. If we bring it up as one of us, it will be one of us, loyal to our standards and morality. We can use the same technique that worked on chimps who were taught sign language – one trusted caretaker, physical affection, a comforting and secure environment.” She paused, and looked around, meeting their eyes. “Why destroy a prize when that prize can belong to us?”

McAvoy smiled suddenly. She glanced at her colleagues. “Well done, Miss Clark.”

“Well done?”

“The minority report has been accepted. This was your graduation exercise.”

She took a deep breath and felt a sudden impulse to sit down. She trampled it. “Then, may I ask – that is, I wish to request – ”

“Yes,” said McAvoy. “You may be the caretaker. I assume that was the request?”

She hadn’t expected it to go this well. “I want to thank the committee for this magnificent research opportunity – ”

Lezak smiled. “But not alone.”

She froze. “Pardon?”

“Well, we can hardly tell you to take the alien and run along, can we?” He opened a large yellow envelope and slid some photos toward her. “Fortunately, we have a friendly area.”

“A... friendly area.”

“A controlled environment. We call it Smallville. For the last few decades we’ve used it for testing agents, and for retiring certain government witnesses, as well as... other people we want to keep an eye on. About half the citizens there are covert; the other half are normal population. You won’t be able to tell which is which, and neither will they. That’s how it works.”

Damn. She’d planned on going back to Metropolis. Still, it was a small price to pay –

“I take it there’s surveillance?”

“The streets and shops are covered. The school will be, too. As will every room of the house where you and your husband will be living.”

Husband?

McAvoy passed her another folder, as though the idea were a minor postscript. “Jonathan Kent, currently a sergeant in the Marines. His family has a farm in the area. It’s really the best way to establish your cover.”

Martha stared at the photograph in shock. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, but...

“Miss Clark?”

She looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was asking,” McAvoy said, “if you’ve given thought to what you’ll tell the Subject if he recalls his time here at the facility.”

“Yes. I’m going to say that he was in a hospital for a few days. It’s unlikely he’ll remember – the language difference, the trauma – ”

“But you have a backup plan in place. Good. Excellent work, Miss Clark.” Martha looked up from the photo again to find that McAvoy had a hand outstretched. Martha shook it. Then she shook hands with the White House, the Pentagon, the Senate, and Navy Intelligence.

She walked away from the meeting, dazed. Smallville. Dear god, was that the best name they could come up with?

Five days later:

Martha led Clark by the hand till they reached the elevator. His eyes, curious, roved all over the hallways, and she wondered what they would do if his powers reached the point where he could sense hidden cameras. Another bridge to be crossed when they came to it, she thought, as he gestured and she lifted him up.

Jonathan stood at the elevator bank. “Thanks for waiting, honey,” she said, trying on the endearment for size. It fit with the awkwardness of a new bathing suit.

He smiled back, just as awkwardly. He seemed like a nice man – for someone she was sure had orders to report on her as well as the baby. She hadn’t had the balls yet to ask if sleeping together was considered part of routine cover.

Inside, she set Clark on his feet again and they stood together in the empty elevator, a perfect family. “Uh, honey?” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead... Jonathan.”

“I heard you swung the entire committee over to the minority view. I know you couldn’t make any kind of maternal plea – if you didn’t keep it professional, they’d never have taken you seriously. But... did you do it strictly for science and country? Or for it?”

“Him.”

“God. Yes. Him, I’m sorry.” Clearly he was sorry for not settling into cover quickly enough, not for any other reason.

Clark watched the numbers on the elevator with big, dark eyes, oblivious to the language of aliens spoken over his head.

“You think I want a child that badly, Jonathan? Surely there are easier ways.”

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t mean anything – ”

She tuned him out as she straightened Clark’s jacket on his little shoulders and gave him a peck on the cheek. He put his hand in hers unhesitatingly, and she thought, “This is the child I want. I’ll get you through this, Clark. Whatever it takes.”

And she gave Jonathan a bright, professional smile. He returned it, uncertainly.

Perhaps she could learn to knit.

III. BLEEDING KANSAS

Pete knew what you were supposed to do with green rock; everybody did. You left it where it was and notified someone in charge.

But the stories were that the green rock could grant you your deepest wish. Urban legend, some said. And if it granted your deepest wish, how come a handful of the men and women who worked near the thickest part of the meteor landing had bumps beneath their clothing, marks of amputation, in the very same places?

Though Pete knew the answer to that too: because everybody’s deepest wish was the same. And Pete was no different; just more determined. That’s why he collected the rocks whenever he found them and stored them under his bed, and lay awake at night tracing the lines of his Wish.

Maybe he should never have hidden in the Kent barn. But he needed at least one more day, one more full night of practice, to make his wish come true, and he had to hide somewhere. So he lay among the hay bales, waiting for darkness, listening to the blessed quiet. No sirens. No helicopter blades cutting through the blue Kansas sky. Just silence and birdsong and the distant lowing of the cattle, until…

“Come out.”

Clark’s voice. Pete froze behind the hay bale. Clark couldn’t possibly see him from there, and Pete knew how to be quiet. You learned things like that early.

“Come on, I can see you.” Clark didn’t sound angry. But how the hell could he see him? Pete sighed and rose to his feet.

“Clark.”

“Pete, what are you doing here?” Pete didn’t answer; it was fairly obvious, he thought, what he was doing there. Clark shook his head. “They’re talking about you on the local news station.”

There was no accusation in Clark’s voice, and Pete was glad of it. The Kents had always seemed like good people; he’d even played with Clark a couple of times, when they were both very young. “Guess I’m famous,” Pete said. “They got the schoolkids out looking yet?”

“Probably by tomorrow,” Clark said. “They’re pretty sure you’re still in the county.” He handed Pete a candy bar. “You look hungry.”

Unexpected kindness. Pete glanced down at the bar, the letters blurred and meaningless. He ripped it open and took a few bites, and felt his stomach almost leap to greet the sugar. His body had changed, since he made the Wish – the engine inside ran hotter and faster.

“Thanks, man. I never had one of these. What do they call ‘em?”

“Snickers.” Clark sat down on another hay bale, just if he expected Pete not to run away from him, and it was hard to ignore that kind of trust. Suddenly he felt as though he’d been rude.

“Sorry about being in your barn. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You won’t get me in trouble.” The smile was kind, too, and Pete felt himself relax for the first time since he’d changed. Maybe he’d come to the right place. Why should the Kents turn him in? It wasn’t as though they were that big a deal themselves; small-time farmers barely eking out a living.

Don’t fool yourself. There’s a continental divide between them and you, and the reason why is branded on your ankle.

“My parents aren’t home, but I could make you eggs and toast at the house.” Pete felt himself stiffen, and Clark must have seen it too, because he went on, “Or you could stay here, if you’re more comfortable.” Jesus, but the Kent kid was polite. It suddenly brought to mind that summer, years back, when Clark could barely talk – funny, because he’d seemed bright in all other ways -- and he’d hauled out his toys for them to play with on the banks of the creek, on those long afternoons. They couldn’t have been more than four or five, and Mrs. Kent would be hanging sheets on the line, glancing over at them from time to time, smiling, clothespins in a bag on her hip. She’d said that she liked the way the sheets smelled when they were hung, fresh and full of the scent of wild prairie roses that grew on the banks.

But probably they just hadn’t wanted to spend the money on a new dryer. It was hard to tell, with the Kents. Pete had heard Mr. Kent once, when Gabe Sullivan brought Pete to the store on a supply run, talking knowledgeably with the other men; saying what a shame it was a few bad slaves got ideas and spoiled it for the others. Kent didn’t use slaves himself, though he used to borrow a couple during harvest. Now that Clark was older, he’d stopped. One kid couldn’t take the place of two or three grown men, so Pete had figured it was about money.

But now he thought maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Kent was a secret freedom-runner. Maybe he talked that way at the store to throw his neighbors off. Maybe Pete could ask Clark to take him in the house and wait for his parents, and they’d feed him and get him north – or even south; there were no slaves in Mexico.

Yeah, Pete. And maybe they’ll fly you there in a LuthorCorp helicopter.

Clark was watching him, now, in a sidelong, thoughtful way. Finally he spoke. “Pete, what’s behind you? On your back?”

“Just my extra clothes.” He made sure his voice was careful and even.

“No it’s not.”

He wondered, again, how Clark knew these things. Clark waited – not resentfully, not suspiciously; calmly, as though he trusted Pete to tell him.

Finally Pete unbuttoned his shirt. He moved to the center of the barn, to give himself room. He threw the shirt to the floor and stretched, and felt the weight shift as he… unfurled.

The light bones folded out, and out, and out again. You would never believe the things could fit in so small a space if you hadn’t seen it, felt it. Light, light as silk they were, soft, and strong as sailing canvas; in the glow of sunlight through the door they shone with a reddish brown tinge like the fire of a deeply buried sunset. The fire of a wish.

A thing of Earth, not heaven. Not angelic, but with the pure magnificence of nature.

Clark stared, awestruck. Pete’s wingspan was a good twelve feet, at least, maybe fifteen.

Clark reached out a hand, and Pete nodded. Clark touched the silky feathers, and saw the ripple that moved out from that touch. “Can you feel them?”

He nodded again.

“What does it feel like?”

“Good. It feels good.”

“Aren’t they – isn’t it too much weight, when you’re trying to walk?”

“Not really.” And it was a burden he was happy to bear.

Clark looked at Pete for permission and then touched them again. “So soft,” he whispered, as though he were in church. Pete flicked at him with an edge of the wing. A wide, disbelieving grin took over Clark’s face, and suddenly Pete found he had one to match, and then they started to laugh.

Clark sat down again. He waited a minute, as though wondering how to put this, then asked simply, “And you don’t mind being different?”

“Are you kidding? I’m glad to be different. C’mon – don’t tell me you never wondered what it would be like to fly.”

“You flew with these?” He didn’t sound convinced.

Pete grinned smugly. “Last night, first time I’d call it real flying. Ferguson’s Hill. I was up for two minutes and forty-five seconds.”

“You counted?”

“Damn straight I counted. Twelve seconds, first time I tried. I’m working my way up.”

“Wow. I didn’t think they’d actually… well… function.”

“They’re from my Wish, Clark. They’re made to fly.”

“Oh, god, Pete, you’re not talking about the rocks, are you? Because you should stay away from those.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really. You should never touch those things. Tell somebody, and they’ll take them to the hazardous disposal – ”

“Oh, crap. They take them to the LuthorCorp trucks that are going to Metropolis. I should know, I worked on three LuthorCorp experimental farms, and it was always the same story. Like they thought we were dumb.” He smiled, not nicely, at Clark’s disconcerted look. “Somebody in Metropolis has got a mighty big wish.”

There was a sound in the distance. A truck engine. Pete froze again. “I think your parents are coming back.”

Clark said nothing. Pete went to the entrance to check, and far down the road he saw it: the familiar blue supply truck. Maybe he couldn’t read, but he knew the words for LuthorCorp by now, and the logo. It was the same logo that was burned into his ankle.

“You called them!”

“Before I came in.”

And despite his panic Pete had to wonder how Clark had known, before he even entered the barn, that he was hiding there.

“Clark, you gotta hide me. I just need time. Please. If I could get to Canada – or just Illinois – ”

Clark didn’t look happy or triumphant or even mean. He looked miserable. “Illinois wouldn’t make any difference. They’d just send you back. The Supreme Court upheld the Dred Scott decision – we read about it in school.”

Clark said that as though Pete would know what the Scott decision was, or why one court was more supreme than another. And then Clark took his hand earnestly, as though he could transmit his own certainty. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Pete shook him off. He looked wildly around the barn. He could run through the fields, jump the creek, try to get past the Bensons’, down the road, and –

--and they would have cell phones and radios and by now the sheriff was driving from town, and his deputies would have the north end of Hickory Lane covered. The Bensons would have let their dogs out. And his picture was all over the fucking news, from what Clark said --

And you know what happens, Pete, when you make them run after you. When the blood starts pounding and they get pissed as hell. You’ve seen it when they brought other people back.

But I have wings now!

Too soon. Not enough time to learn how to use them.

The truck parked outside the barn. Gabe Sullivan got out, along with three supervisors from the farming division. They wore holsters. “Clark?” Mr. Sullivan called.

Clark walked outside into the sunshine. “He’s kind of scared, Mr. Sullivan. I don’t think he wants to make any trouble. Can’t you take it easy on him?”

“Nobody wants to hurt him,” Mr. Sullivan said soothingly. He raised his voice. “You hear that, Pete? We’ve just come to take you home.” His gaze raked through the shadows just inside the barn and came to rest on Pete. He nodded to the supervisors, and two of them came and grasped Pete’s arms. They pulled him outside.

“Just take it easy,” Mr. Sullivan said. “You’re in enough trouble already, right?” He turned to Clark. “Thanks for the help, son. Your family’s always been good neighbors.”

They pulled Pete toward the truck and suddenly he came to life again. He kicked out, yanked an arm away and whirled, surprising himself, toward Clark. If Clark knew things, maybe there were other – powers – Clark had. Anyway, he was Pete’s only hope right now.

“Clark, man, you don’t get it! They’ll cut them off!” His arm was grabbed again, more roughly this time, and they hustled him to the back of the truck. Cuffs clicked onto his wrists.

The man he’d kicked hissed, “You’ll be lucky if we use anesthesia, you fuckin’ psycho. Want we should get the ax out of the cab?”

“Not in front of the kid,” said Mr. Sullivan, and by “the kid,” he obviously meant Clark.

He was dumped unceremoniously into the back. “Clark, fuck this, help me, I can fly! I have to fly! Don’t let them – ”

Clark walked a few steps closer, clearly upset, eyes shining with unshed tears. “It’s the right thing to do, Pete. They’d only shoot you down.”

Gabe Sullivan started the motor. The three supervisors climbed in the back beside him. And the truck rumbled down the road, with Pete gazing out at the square picture postcard of dust and sunlight and the Kent farm, and a boy in the distance growing smaller and smaller.

Clark watched for a while as the truck disappeared down the road. He was unhappy for Pete, but the worst of the pain would soon be over, and he’d get the best medical care. LuthorCorp knew how to keep its property well.

At least this way, Pete was alive. And stealing was wrong; Clark knew that, it had been explained to him. Even when what you were stealing was yourself, it was still wrong. You could try to make the excuse that it wasn’t a large theft, but slaves weren’t cheap; and ultimately crime is never an abstraction. In the case of LuthorCorp, you were taking from the stockholders of the company, real men and women, some of whom were retirees on fixed incomes.

Clark believed in ideals. He believed in truth, justice, and the American way. So he turned from the road and walked back toward the house, hoping his parents would be proud -- a good boy, a good student, a loving son; and stalwart defender of civilization as he knew it.

Footnote: In the years before the American Civil War, slavery was a particularly bitter issue. When Kansas was still a territory, it was decided that the people in that area would settle the question for themselves – they could vote on whether to enter the union as a slave or a free state. Immediately pro- and anti-slave forces rushed in settlers and agitators to influence the vote. Argument soon turned to murder – over 200 men were killed, the free-soil city of Lawrence sacked, and several (apparently) pro-slavery settlers were hacked to death by John Brown. It became a tiny microcosm of the War to come, and so great was the violence and enmity, that the years 1854 to 1856 in that place became known as “Bleeding Kansas.”