ToC - for previous parts.
Waking a Miracle -- (02/??)
The televisions blared in the background of the Daily
Planet's ever-active bullpen as news from across the world
came in over the wires, and the scrolling marquee on the
wall updated every few minutes or so with the latest
information about the markets, car accidents, Messenger
launch failures, candidacy debates, and whatever else
happened to be happening that day. Reporters, messengers,
researchers, and copy boys ran this way and that as the
sound of ringing telephones dotted the bustle with their
chorus.
At least...
That's how she would have described it if she were writing
her novel. But no, everything was mostly dull today. The
marquee had been repeating the same message all morning:
Messenger launch failure. Messenger launch failure.
Messenger launch failure. Because it was basically the only
thing that had happened.
Lois Lane leaned back in her chair and sighed as she watched
the news on her small desk set. After reorganizing her
desk, watering her plant, refilling the coffee pot up at the
refreshment station, moving her nameplate from the top of
her monitor, down to in front of her one, dilapidated plant,
and then back to the top of her monitor again, finally
resorting to harassing the police to rustle up some
criminals, she had run out of things to pass the time.
Inspector Henderson had basically hung up on her. She had
even checked the court dockets. 235 speeding tickets and
not a single felony.
It just wasn't fair.
The world was conspiring against her.
She crossed her legs at the ankles and used her heels to
prop her chair back comfortably. This seemed like just one
of those days where she was doomed to be bored. At least
she didn't feel so bad for resorting to the television to
see if there was any news she was missing, somehow. It was
a purely justifiable act of desperation!
"Transport vehicle Messenger piloted by Commander Jack
Laderman and carrying the final propulsion module for Space
Station Prometheus, is scheduled for lift-off Friday at 9
A.M.," the anchorwoman on LNN commented.
She rolled her eyes. Who could have ever guessed this would
be the top story?
"Many hopes are riding on the success of this mission,
especially in light of the failure of last week's unmanned
launch. Space Station Prometheus, an international effort,
is still lying low in its orbit, awaiting the arrival of
remaining modules, including the colonist habitation module
scheduled to launch next week. Once all are in place, the
Station will be lifted into permanent orbit."
Lois resisted the urge to bite back at the TV. The repeated
delays and malfunctions, to her, just screamed ineptitude.
Typical government ineptitude. She had done a preliminary
investigation as soon as reports that the first shuttle
launch had failed came in, but had been bounced around to so
many ignorant department heads she had ended up switching
tracks and spent the rest of the day researching the space
program.
The anchorwoman continued. "Dr. Toni Baines, Director of
the Extra Planetary Research and Development agency, reminds
us that timing is crucial. A series of delays and launch
failures has put EPRAD's back to the wall."
EPRAD, in the past several years, hadn't managed to complete
a single mission successfully, which she suspected was more
the reason that their future projects were threatened than
just the failure of this particular one. She had decided
she could easily write an op-ed piece regarding the
tribulations of EPRAD, but that there certainly wasn't any
breaking news in yet another of their projects going down
the tubes, which was too bad, considering that the goals of
the projects were beneficial to just about everyone.
She had visited EPRAD's facilities just to make absolutely
sure there was nothing fishy going on, and she had gotten
bounced around to different secretaries almost as if they
were playing hot potato with her. The few supervisors she
had managed to get through to could tell her absolutely
nothing, and it had been easy to figure out that they had
had no more idea about their own situation than she did.
It had been a ridiculous waste of time.
The picture of the LNN anchorwoman flipped to Dr. Antoinette
Baines. Her face was round, almost like a pie-plate in
shape -- the short, sort-of curled blond hair that framed it
made it seem even more so -- and her make-up was impeccable.
"Unless all modules are in place within the next weeks,
Space Station Prometheus will lose its orbit and fall back
into Earth's atmosphere. That kind of occurrence would
surely spell the end to any future projects and the space
station as a whole."
Well, Baines sounded sincere. Sort of.
Lois glared, a bit angry that a woman could preside over
such a mess of failures. Lois had to work her butt off just
to make sure men were looking at her writing and not at her
chest. This woman had managed to gain a director position,
and now she was blowing it for herself and for women
everywhere by making herself look like a bungling
bureaucrat.
The LNN anchorwoman didn't seem to care, however, and moved
on to the next story on her list.
"And in other news, political golden boy, George Thompson,
jumped ahead several points in the polls today. With the
Democratic and Republican candidates clawing for approval,
primaries only days away, for the first time in history, an
Independent is leading the pack. Virtually an unknown
before this year's candidacy race, George Thompson was a
long-standing special agent in the FBI and also served in
the Air Force earlier in his life, although neither career
seems to be marked with any exemplary actions. When asked
why he had chosen no party affiliation, Thompson commented
that he would do what was best for the United States,
regardless of which party that plan fell under. When asked
to elaborate on his campaign goals, however, he stated he
would do what the people wanted him to do."
"Well that's just perfect," Lois snapped, unable to help
herself. "It figures that this is the one country where a
nobody with no real values, no campaign goals, no
recognizable personality whatsoever, and whose only claim to
fame is that he seems to be a darned nice guy, can become
the leader of the free world."
That had come out a lot louder than she had intended.
The choir of telephones and jumbled noises seemed to hush as
her last words sling-shot off the walls. Even the scrolling
marquee seemed to slow down, as if wary of her next move.
She rolled her eyes, feeling heat form on her face. Gazes
were resting on her, pricking into the back of her neck,
curious and intrusive. Whispers seemed to dart about like a
morass of hungry locusts. She hoped her foundation was
hiding the blush she felt creeping across her skin.
Her chair protested, feet scraping loudly across the tiled
floor as she stood and jammed it backwards with the backs of
her knees. "What?!" She raised her hands outwards from her
shoulders as if to say, 'I don't know,' but the mean spirit
in her voice and the serious look on her face quickly
dispelled that interpretation.
She waved flippantly. "Go back to work!"
She heard the noise level return to normal as everyone
switched back to what they had been doing before, most
notably nothing, and she collapsed back into her chair with
a sigh. Several pens and pencils cascaded to the floor as
she knocked over her pencil cup, but remembering that she
had just gotten everyone to stop looking at her, she managed
to withhold a curse.
They were gossiping about her, she knew. It was like her
innate spider-sense. Lois, they're talking about what a
cold fish you are again.
Not a cold fish.
Driven!
A driven ice queen?
Get a grip, Lane!
It didn't matter what they thought as long as she was the
one pulling in the Kerths and scaring up leads. Today,
naturally, didn't count in that assessment, since there were
no leads to scare.
She bent to the floor to retrieve her spilled writing
utensils, only to feel a familiar pair of eyes on her.
"Morning, Lois," Cat Grant's snide voice dripped over Lois's
shoulder. "On your hands and knees again, I see."
Lois peered under her arm only to meet eyes with a heeled
shoe. How Cat did not have back trouble with heels like
that, she would never know. "Isn't it a little too early
for you to be in, Cat?" she snapped as she rolled back onto
the balls of her feet pushed up into a standing position,
pens and pencils clutched in one hand. "I thought ladies
like you only worked nights."
Cat's left eyebrow raised and a slow smirk spread across her
face. She shifted on her feet so that the split in her
dress was even more revealing. "Part of my job as a society
columnist--"
"Mud-slinging rumor monger," Lois interjected, rolling her
eyes.
Cat's voice rose, fighting for dominance, "--is to maintain
an active social life." Every word was punctuated as her
stare grazed Lois's figure from head to toe. "You remember
what that's like... or do you?"
Lois's cheeks started to burn with heat again. There was
pressure in her chest that threatened to explode. "Listen,
Cat," she began, her tone low, almost a growl.
But Cat seemed to give up the subject and tilted her head
towards Perry's office, a questioning look in her eyes. "So
who's the new tight end?"
Lois turned to follow Cat's gaze and noticed for the first
time that there was a man in the office with Perry -- a very
good looking man with dark hair, a loose-fitting charcoal
suit, and a horrific tie. "I have no idea," she answered,
surprised.
"Some new guy," Jimmy answered as he approached. There
was... a thing... clutched in his hand. It looked almost
like one of those horns circus clowns used, but... "Sorry,
I overheard you two," he replied sheepishly when Lois raised
her eyebrows at him.
"It's ok." She eavesdropped all the time -- not like it was
a sin when people were too focused on what they were saying
to move somewhere more private. "What do you know, and what
*is* that in your hands, Jimmy?"
Jimmy glanced downward at his bundle. "It's, um, the horn
for Perry's golf cart. He wanted me to fix it. The tone's
still off but--" He cleared his throat.
Lois looked at it in disbelief as he squeezed the bulbous
end of the horn and a dull bleat emitted, kind of like she
imagined a dying cow to sound. Deadpanning for a few
seconds, she could resist the temptation no longer. She
threw her fists into the air and grimaced. "Please, send us
a conspiracy! Anything! I would cover a movie premiere
at this point!" she cried to no one in particular.
Even Cat had no arguments.
"Anyways," Jimmy continued, "Perry's looking at him for the
open investigative reporter position. He used to live in
Smallville, I think, but he worked at the Kansas City Star."
"Smallville? I couldn't *make* that name up."
"You know, Lois," Cat purred, "Sometimes the small town boys
are the wildest."
"Spare me the Danielle Steele novel, Cat."
"You know, I've visited Chautauqua County once." Jimmy
grinned and wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Think I've
been imbued with rural powers?"
Cat looked appalled, her lips curling in disgust. She took
a deep breath and began to respond, but the phone rang and
Lois gratefully extricated herself from the conversation.
She lifted her phone off its cradle and answered, "Daily
Planet, Lois Lane speaking."
Please. Please, let this be a story, she chanted silently.
"Hi Lois, it's Scott." Her FBI contact's deep baritone
voice filled her with hope that this might not be a slow
news day after all.
The sounds of Cat and Jimmy's boxing match faded quickly.
"Hi Scott, how are you doing? Do you have information for
me?" She shifted the phone to her other ear as she grabbed
a pen and flipped open her notepad past pages and pages
until she arrived at an empty one. She hoped she hadn't
sounded too eager.
"As always, but this is more sticky than usual. This is
deep background, understand? I'm not to be implicated in
any way."
"Of course, Scott." She let loose a breath of indignation.
"You know I always protect my sources." She had been to
jail more than once for brief periods when the Shield Laws
had failed to come through for her. She actually played
poker with some of the Daily Planet lawyers from time to
time. Mad Dog Lane didn't reveal sources. It was as simple
as that.
She had to pull the phone back from her ear when Scott let
out a heavy breath into the receiver. "George Thompson --
you need to keep your eyes on him," Scott said.
She smiled as a rush of excitement twanged through her and
she suppressed a shiver. Proof positive that no man was
ever a decent individual.
George Thompson, she wrote on her pad.
"Has he done something illegal?"
There was a long pause, but she heard movement on the other
end of the line so she knew he hadn't gone anywhere.
"Scott? Has he done something illegal?"
"Well, I can't say for sure." Hedging. Scott had called
her to give her a tip and now he was hedging? What did that
mean? Scott never hedged. He gave her two minutes of fact
after regurgitated fact, said his pleasantries, and was off
the phone.
This was big. Huge. Bigger than huge.
Pulitzer!
She brought herself back down from orbit in time to hear
Scott finally continue. "Rumor has it there is a certain
very hard to find FBI office called Bureau 39 that was
somehow involved with the disappearance of Miracle Man last
year, and also that certain parties are now trying to cover
up what little points to the department's existence."
Conspiracy? Bureau 39 = ? FBI cover-up of MM
disappearance? More notes flew down onto her pad. More
excitement. Not only was it bigger than huge, it was her
dream story.
"Involved with the disappearance?" she asked. "What is
Bureau 39? What does this have to do with Thompson? It
wasn't even solidly proven that Miracle Man existed in the
first place!"
She suddenly became aware that she was thwacking her pen
against the corner of her desk in an odd, but very loud
rhythm, like a drunk woodpecker. Jimmy and Cat had stopped
arguing and were standing side by side, arms crossed,
eyebrows raised, and both were peering at her. She
swallowed and stilled the pen, giving them what she thought
was her best, hopeful smile.
"Thompson is supposedly Bureau 39's supervisor, at least
in name."
More scribbled notes. George Thompson was Bureau 39's
supervisor, "in name." What did "in name" mean? That would
imply somebody else was really pulling the strings.
Wouldn't it? Or maybe it meant he wasn't really a
supervisor in the sense of the word she thought of --
signing checks, making a few decisions here and there, but
never really getting his hands dirty, not knowing anything
worth knowing. *Maybe* he went down into the trenches with
his men!
And did what, exactly?
"What do you mean, 'in name'? What's Bureau 39?"
"You'll have to find that out for yourself, Lois, because
even I don't know." Scott sounded much more relaxed now,
like someone who had gone in for dental work dripping with
apprehensive nerves and was pleased to find out nothing bad
was really going to happen.
But... She was flummoxed. That couldn't be everything! He
couldn't dangle a piece of meat in front of her and then
explain that, well, he really didn't know what *kind* of
meat it was. Or if it were really meat. Which brought
about a whole new set of issues. Because if it wasn't meat,
well then, what was it? Fruit?
"Scott, come on," she protested. "Don't throw me a bone and
then pull it back."
"I'm sorry, Lois, I really don't have anything else. Just
watch Thompson and I'm sure you'll get your story."
The sound of the dial tone put a very definite period on
that exchange. She growled as she slammed down her phone
and looked at her notes. She had a bunch of questions, and
she wasn't even sure what they were about.
"Well?" Jimmy asked, expectantly, reminding her that he and
Cat were still standing there.
She shook her head. "I have to talk to Perry."
She stood and made a beeline for his office, leaving her
pair of spectators gawking in her charged wake.
*****
TBC...
(End Part 02/??)
