CHAPTER TWO: La Donna E Mobile DUKE. O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence! That instant was I turn'd into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E'er since pursue me. -- Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene i Bruce Wayne stopped in his tracks as if he had thought of something. "Did I tell you I have another guest here for lunch, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, smiling affably. Terry McGinnis felt his eyes narrow. The Old Man was up to something. But there weren't any other cars parked outside, and those cycles belonged to him and Max.... "No, you didn't," said Sherlock Holmes, his tone equally genial but his glance suddenly sharper. "His name wouldn't be Moriarty, would it?" The Old Man's face turned cold. "My hospitality doesn't extend that far." "You relieve me. Well, I suppose I will simply have to wait to be introduced to this mysterious guest of yours." "Well, I don't know that you were ever formally introduced, but I'm sure you know her." Wayne opened the door. It creaked with an eerie groan that sounded like a soul in torment. Terry rolled his eyes. The Old Man had made him stop oiling the hinges two months ago to produce just that effect. Beyond the door, Wayne Manor stretched out like a great dark cave, lit only by the gray stormdusk beyond the windows. Lightning flashed, and he saw a black-haired woman standing alone in the middle of the room. She turned and stepped into the light from the door. She was not tall by modern standards and slender by any. But she stood very straight, like a queen, and called everyone's attention. He had never seen her face in color before, but he recognized her instantly. Somehow, Terry managed to tear his eyes away. Wayne looked grimly amused. Just for a second, Mr. Holmes looked like he'd been whacked over the head. Beth grinned excitedly -- and then her eyes flashed to Holmes and the light in her eyes went out, leaving her smile rather hollow. Ooookay, that was interesting.... Holmes' Irregulars and Max just looked awed. Terry couldn't tell how his own face looked. He _hoped_ it was expressionless. Otherwise, Dana was gonna kill him. He glanced over at her, afraid he'd see a death glare. He'd already heard enough from her about girls named Irene. Dana only looked confused. "Who is she, Terry?" she whispered as they walked inside. "Irene Adler Norton," he said quietly. "Or, as Mr. Holmes used to refer to her -- _The_ Woman." The Woman walked up to the other guests. She smiled at Terry knowingly. "What a melodramatic introduction! Please, just call me Irene." Okay, so _The_ Woman had good ears. Not to mention a voice that made shivers run down his spine. Terry reddened. It didn't help that Dana started giggling at him as Wayne turned on a few more lights. At least it looked a little less like the Batcave. Beth laughed too and stepped forward, just as if she'd never had that weird look on her face. "So _you're_ Irene Norton, the Gotham City Metropolitan Opera's newest contralto? When I think of all the jokes we Sherlockians made about it on the Hounds list...." She extended a hand. "It's an honor to meet you, ma'am. But how....?" "How is it that I'm alive?" Irene -- he couldn't think of her as 'Mrs. Norton' -- grinned. "Thank Mr. Wayne for that." "Don't give me the credit." Wayne looked grim. "It was Derek Powers who had your corpse rejuvenated, after he heard about Mr. Holmes here. He was hoping that the process would work on him. It didn't." "Well, not for lack of trying," Irene observed. "But whatever it was that damaged his DNA kept doing it. Cloning didn't work, and neither did cellular rejuvenation." "What's that?" Dana whispered. Terry whispered back, "Tell you later." He wasn't entirely sure that he should. That stuff was all classified until the governments of the world could figure out a way to deal with nobody really dying. The only reason he and Wayne knew was that Beth had notified the Sherlockian Foundation before she'd reported Holmes' revival to the Yard, and thus before the Official Secrets Act could come into play. The British government was totally unthrilled, but tough tookies. Irene continued dispassionately, "They contemplated transplanting Mr. Powers into someone else's body -- mine, for instance -- but luckily, he wasn't interested in becoming a female. And there were other wrinkles; Mr. Powers died before all of those were ironed out. Then some of his scientists wanted to get rid of all the evidence, including me. But Mr. Wayne came along to inspect the lab a little earlier than they'd anticipated." She smiled dazzlingly at the Old Man. "So you see," she said, with the air of someone repeating an old argument, "I do owe you my life. Not to mention my career -- or at least my audition." "You don't owe me a thing," Wayne insisted. "Just do a good job tomorrow night." He turned to the rest of them, his voice doing that genial thing again. "It will be Mrs. Norton's debut on stage at the Met." "How exciting!" Dana said. "Who are you playing?" She answered levelly enough, but glee danced in her eyes. "Carmen." Terry considered this. What it sounded like was giving a tac nuke to someone already armed with a laser rifle and a pulse gun. Tennyson touched a few keys on his hoverchair's keyboard. Wiggins grinned at the tones he produced and translated, "Tennyson says we'll have to watch that on the hotel room vidscreen. That audience won't know what hit them!" "I think we can do better than that," Wayne said unexpectedly. "If you wouldn't mind all being my guests tomorrow night...." You had to hand it to the Old Man, Terry decided. When he started playing rich guy, he really did it right. Only Commissioner Gordon seemed amused at his sudden generosity. She slipped over to Wayne's side while everyone else was busy thanking him and murmured, "You're matchmaking again," in a voice Terry could barely overhear. "Maybe." "How well did it work last time?" The Old Man shrugged uncomfortably, as if to shake off an annoying bug. "This isn't last time." "No. It isn't." She slipped away again. Oooookay.... _More_ weird little undercurrents from ancient history. Wayne started introducing everybody. Terry wondered what Irene would think if he started saying, "And this is Barbara Gordon, Commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department. She used to be Batgirl, and I used to date her." All this wheels-within-wheels stuff got old pretty fast. "Do treat me with a bit more respect, Mr Holmes," Irene said, drawing herself up. "I am not only singing a leading role; I am also a teacher of voice." Holmes bowed slightly. "I apologize for not observing the signs of your new profession sooner," he said, and took her hands, turning them over to reveal her fingertips. "I still do not see spatulate fingers, though you do have the muscle development characteristic of intensive piano playing...." She laughed, a bit amused at his presumption, and pulled her hands out of his. "This _is_ the 22nd century." She wiggled her fingers in the air and soft music began playing. "Look, Ma, no hands." "But why do you need to teach?" asked the Scotland Yard inspector, Beth Lestrade. Irene looked at her thoughtfully. Something was bothering that young woman. That smile of hers was positively grim. "For my own selfish reasons," she assured Beth. "My fellow singers are used to having their voices artificially amplified. As a result, they tend to sound rather thin, which makes my voice sound quite Wagnerian beside them. I've been teaching them some exercises my teacher taught me, as I'm closer to the glory days of bel canto by several generations of singers." She gave Beth her best bemused look. "So now they say I should put a teaching video out on the Net for people to buy." Beth again smiled determinedly and said, "That's great!" Holmes said something complimentary. Out of the corner of her eye, Irene saw Beth's face flush with anger -- but only for the briefest moment. Interesting. She turned back to Beth and smiled. Irene knew something of the woman before her. She had run across Beth Lestrade's name while looking into this rather odd group of history enthusiasts they called Sherlockians. It would have been difficult not to. Miss Lestrade had apparently spent her youth, until the end of college, either writing Sherlockian essays and papers or cheerfully arguing with the most prominent members of that world. Since her preferred method of argument was to attack as many sacred cows as possible, she had been singlehandedly responsible for a great many "flame wars". About the only thing she hadn't attacked was the bizarre cult of chivalry which had apparently developed around one Irene Adler. Indeed, her papers had revealed a girlish enthusiasm for Miss Adler's exploits which Irene herself did not share. Now the enfant terrible had grown up to work with the idol of her circle. That didn't seem to bother Mr. Wayne and his friends, but then they all seemed to have a good sense of their own worth. Irene Adler Norton had spent too many years in a very small business to have any illusions about Miss Lestrade's probable level of popularity with those less secure in their own esteem. And yet, with all that to worry about, and Irene's own presence to enthuse over, Miss Lestrade's thoughts were obviously elsewhere. And no wonder. Irene glanced shrewdly at Mr. Holmes. He seemed almost unaware of his own good looks and power to fascinate. That at least she knew must be untrue, for noone with an actor's soul could neglect such a wonderful professional tool. Still, she knew such a shrewd observer could be surprisingly blind. Most men would have resented being defeated by a woman -- even more should it be generally known and remembered. She could not help but be intrigued by a man who accepted his defeat by a woman with grace, but she also had a few wrongs to pay back. Irene smiled. This did promise to be fun. Smile, Beth Lestrade reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Make your face look all zedding pleasant. You can't kill Mr. Wayne. You can't kill Holmes. And even if Barbara gives you another sympathetic look, you can't kill her, either. Look at Irene Adler. See, she's laughing even though she's still in blacks over Geoffrey Norton and her son. Now there's a tough woman. When that stupid king broke up with her, she didn't mope around. Look at her, and don't you dare hate her. It's not her fault. But part of Beth answered back, It's not fair! She's got everything -- voice and looks -- fame, too, or soon will again. Let her take someone else, not -- The smile was slipping. Beth got hold of herself. He's not your property, she told herself coldly. He's loved her for a long time, and you're supposed to be his friend. Act like it, and be happy for him. Smile. One part of Watson's computer mind and robot body was busy talking about the latest programming developments with Tennyson and Miss Gibson -- er, Max. But most of his attention was on the little group around Irene Adler Norton. He was quite confused by the situation. Lestrade was normally a bit territorial, suspicious of any newcomer to her small circle of friends. On rare occasions she might like someone immediately. But Watson had never seen Beth Lestrade attempt to conceal her own feelings out of politeness. It seemed unnatural. But he was confused by both his human friends, not just one. The smooth and smiling Holmes with his eyes steadily fixed on La Belle Irene was not the same Holmes who had packed for this trip. That Holmes had been edgy and argumentative one moment and humming to himself the next. Watson had finally tired of being commanded to say where things were and snapped, "It's a very good thing I'm not an Asimovian robot, or I'd've burned myself out by now from wanting to break the First Law!" "Never mind; here's my multi-tool right where I left it!" Holmes called out from the kitchen. "Mi pizzichi, mi stuzzichi,/Mi pungichi, mi mastichi," he sang, remarkably cheerful for someone informing the world that he had been stung, poked, pinched and bitten. "Tra-la-la-lirra-lay," he added, apparently forgetting a passage of the Scarlatti song as he came through the door with the offending multi-tool and threw it onto his stack of clothing. "Holmes." "Pieta, pieta, pieta...." "Holmes, why on earth are you vacillating between rage and 18th century Italian songs?" "I'm not! Not in the least!" he said indignantly. "I'm in a perfectly good mood -- or I will be if you'll stop asking stupid questions and let me find my electric razor." Holmes stomped off to the bathroom to retrieve this necessary. "Besides, the first three songs were by de Lassus, from considerably before the 18th century." Watson called after him, "That doesn't change the fact that you are acting very oddly, you know. Why?" Holmes seemed to ignore him, but his tone was sadder as Watson heard him sing, "Amore e un certo che/Che disperar me fa." 'Love is a certain thing that makes me despair.' Watson shook his head as he watched his friends now. He was not denying that Holmes might have certain feelings toward Mrs. Norton. The original Dr. Watson had been fully convinced of that, and written about his conviction in his journals in terms even stronger than in his published work. But it seemed to him that Holmes was retreating into some old wistful dream of romance in order to escape the more volatile possibilities of the present. More worryingly, Lestrade -- stubborn, territorial Lestrade -- was apparently more than willing to let Holmes go. But he was only a compudroid. What did he know about human love that didn't come from a book? "Look, not to put down your lifework, but I've never gotten into opera much," said Dana diffidently. "The music's always pretty enough, but the style and the stories...ugh. Maybe I'm wrong, but isn't that Carmen thing just one big stereotype about Gypsies and Spain?" "No. It isn't." It seemed that Irene had heard this comment before, from the frustrated look on her face. "It's no more stylized a form than the holovideos you watch today. Carmen isn't about stereotypes -- not if the production really understands the opera and the play it came from. It's about life and love, freedom and truth -- the same things as any piece of great art. Carmen isn't a stereotype; she's a woman." Her eyes softened. "A woman who left behind the strict rules of her people to find a better, freer life." "So that's what you like about Carmen?" Dana asked. "That she's a modern woman?" "More or less. I like the way she gets whatever and whoever she wants." Holmes frowned. "Does she? I was under the impression that Carmen never gets what she wants. She's as frustrated as Don Jose. That's why she's restless." "So you think Micaela is what Carmen should have been? That she should have stayed home, or settled down in a little house with Don Jose?" "Not at all," said Holmes. "Carmen's tragedy is that she wanted something beside the world of the Rom or the world of the Gaje, because in both of them she had no choices. A factory girl is at least as constrained as a traditional wife and mother. Her best choice was to become a criminal, so that she could put her fighting talents and craftiness to work. But really, I think she would have been much happier if she could have been a soldier...or a bullfighter, like Escamillo. Yes -- dancing and killing in one. It would have suited her. I suppose that is why she and Escamillo got along so well -- and why she fell in love with Don Jose in the first place." Irene stared at him, then smiled slowly. "Mr. Holmes, you are the most unkind man. We've already had dress rehearsal. Tomorrow we open, and now you tell me all this?" She shook a finger at him. "You're giving me plenty of work, sir. But fortunately, I think I know where you got the idea." She glanced over at Beth, then back at Holmes. She was looking amused. Holmes smiled back blandly, refusing to confirm or deny. He nudged Dana. "Want to go talk to the Irregulars?" She shrugged. "I guess." Oops. "Hey, I'm sorry this party hasn't been very fun for you." "No, it's been pretty...interesting so far. I just feel kinda out of it, since I'm not into all this Sherlock Holmes stuff." "Well, at least the food'll be good, so your night won't be a total loss." She smiled at him. "It hasn't been, Terry. I'm getting to spend time with you. How often does _that_ happen?" "Not often enough." Not with patrols to run, crimes to solve, martial arts to practice, criminology to study, and...he felt tired just thinking about it. "No," she agreed sadly. "And I know you need the money, and I'm glad you can help out Mr. Wayne. I just wish you didn't need to work this much. I hardly see you after school." She sighed. "I care about you, and I know you care for me. But I don't really know you the way I should. We need time." "I know what you mean," he said. But he didn't know what to do about it. He'd been wondering that for a long time. He couldn't tell her about being Batman; he'd been sworn to secrecy by Wayne. The only other person who knew was Max, who'd found out for herself. She helped cover for him and gave him someone to talk to -- well, someone who wasn't a jillion years old, and had more to say about problems than 'suck it up'. So when he had a free moment, he tended to call Max or go over to her place and decompress. He didn't have to make up excuses for Max, and when he said, "Gotta go," Max understood that he meant "Someone's trying to kill me -- I'll call you back." It didn't hurt that she knew more about cracking computer security than Wayne did. But Max wasn't his girlfriend. Dana should've been getting that time and those calls. Luckily Max was Dana's friend, too, so she could interpret for each of them; but she shouldn't've had to. Feeling uncomfortable, Terry looked for Max and tried to catch her eye. Bruce Wayne stood watching the progress of the first luncheon party he'd given in years. He was actually enjoying himself. But even now, in an event he could never have imagined taking place, he felt himself slipping back into his memories. Barbara, of course. Little Beth Lestrade, all grown up -- give her a club and wings and she'd be Hawkgirl. Except for his loose, easy stance, Wiggins could have been a younger edition of one of the best of the Green Lanterns. And when she smiled in a certain enigmatic way, Irene Adler looked far too much like Catwoman. But then there was Sherlock Holmes, who made him feel _really_ young. Bruce had started reading Dr. Watson's articles not long before his parents died, and even then he'd given some serious effort -- serious for a child, anyway -- to adopting Holmes' methods. He'd been enchanted to learn that Holmes was right; there _were_ stories written on the world for those with eyes to see them. Then, when he decided to begin his long self-training to become a crimefighter, it was Holmes who pointed the way. Like Holmes, he had developed his mind along with his body, learned science and disguise as well as martial arts. There was solid forensics, deduction and legwork behind the mystique of the Bat, and keeping Holmes as his ideal made sure he never forgot it. But Bruce was suddenly gaining a great deal of sympathy for those of his students who'd rebelled against him. Now that he'd finally met the man he'd made his mentor, he found him annoying, arrogant, cold, unnerving, smart-alecky, and a know-it-all. Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne had to admit there was some resemblance. But surely he'd never been quite _that_ smug? And so, Bruce Wayne took a certain satisfaction in knowing that there were four people here, including himself, who knew something Holmes didn't know. If he'd met Beth before his heart attack, it very well might have been five -- though it was hard to picture her practicing ninjitsu. All that talk at the front door had been a fishing expedition. Holmes might guess, but he didn't know. He couldn't know. Bruce'd been trained as a ninja, he'd had a double identity for over fifty years, and he just didn't give any clues to figure things out. So if Holmes' knowing glance made him feel a bit nervous, it was just paranoia. It meant nothing. Nothing at all. Max was over talking with Watson, Tennyson and Barbara Gordon, but when she saw his meaningful (okay, pleading) glance, she excused herself gracefully and walked over. Terry sighed his relief. Max would rescue him. Again. "Uh oh," said Dana. "Looks like somebody's not happy with you, Ter'." He followed her gaze. Deidre, the redhead, was stomping toward them, followed by Wiggins, who was trying to persuade her against whatever she intended. "What'd I do?" he asked rhetorically. Dana shrugged. Deidre reached them and gave him a dirty look. "I thought you were the Inspector's _friend_," she accused him, ignoring all of Wiggins' pained looks. "Why didn't you warn her?" "About what?" "Her! _And_ him," she added, jerking her chin toward Holmes. Wiggins moaned softly. "Not this again." "You're not making sense," Terry complained. "Look, Wayne didn't let me in on any of the Irene thing. And why would I need to 'warn' Beth about it?" Deidre gave him the same look he usually got from Dana's friends. It meant, 'Must I enlighten you, o clueless male?' He found it pretty irritating from them, but getting it from some younger kid he didn't even know brought annoyance to a whole new level. "Mr Holmes and Irene Adler had a past," Deidre then pronounced solemnly. "But Mr Holmes and the Inspector have a future." "Says you!" Wiggins folded his arms. "You've been going on about this since November." "'Cos I didn't see it till then," Deidre explained patiently. "'Cos that was when you started breathing vacuum!" "Better say something diplomatic, Ter'," Dana advised softly. "You're spacehappy," Terry said. Hey, it was diplomatic compared to what he'd been thinking. "Every so often, Beth posts yet another email to the Hounds of the Internet, the big Sherlockian mailing list, about all the things Holmes has done lately to torque her off. For a while there, Beth was posting so much that the admin tried to figure out a way to declare Holmes off-topic!" He shook his head. "I hate to burst your bubble, but I do not feel the love." Max, who'd arrived in the middle of all this, managed to jump in before Deidre could. "Well, _that_ doesn't necessarily mean anything." Dana nodded, giving Terry a pointed look. "If a girl being annoyed at a guy meant that she wasn't interested, most guys would be dating each other." Wiggins made a face. "Hey! Me and my girlfriend Jacey are tight. If she was mad at me very long, I couldn't stand it." Deidre shrugged. "From what I've seen, you're not most guys, Wiggins." Dana nodded, and Max gave a loud "Mmm-hmm." Terry rolled his eyes. "I hate to interrupt National Rip-on-Men Day, but I'd like to point out that this whole discussion is pointless. It's a well-known fact that Sherlock Holmes is not interested in women." "Exactly," Wiggins agreed. There was silence for a moment. "Not that he's gay, though." More silence. "Not that there's anything wr...." Terry rephrased. "What's wrong with somebody not being interested in dating?" he demanded. "Why can't you just leave him be?" "Why's it bother _you_ to think he might fall in love?" Deidre retorted. "His life, innit?" Wiggins and Terry exchanged exasperated glances. Was it any use trying to explain? Maybe it had something to do with having first read Watson's articles back before puberty hit, and girls became the major focus of life. But that probably wasn't a good way to argue. "Holmes, he's like the ultimate brain," Terry ventured. "When he's on a case, he doesn't eat or sleep, and the rest of the time he doesn't really pay attention to his body." Wiggins nodded. "Yeah, we've seen him keep fighting when anybody else would've collapsed. His body does what he tells it to, when he tells it to do it. And even when he got old, back in the day, he still could do what he had to." "And he keeps coming back from the dead," Terry pointed out. "A guy like that isn't going to be led around by his hormones." Dana gave him a hard look. "We're not talking about hormones, Terry. We're talking about love." Oops. Max folded her arms across her breasts, looking uncomfortable. "I think I understand your argument, guys, and it's nice to have a role model for those of us who don't date regularly." She smiled wryly. "But it's not like he took a vow of poverty, chastity, and logic. Deidre could be right." She nodded toward Irene and Holmes, standing deep in conversation. Holmes was leaning toward her, his eyes intensely bright. "I mean, if that's lack of interest, I'll eat my computer." Terry winced. But he wasn't quite ready to give up the fight. "He's interested in what she's saying, that's all. She's a very smart person." Geez, that sounded lame. Max raised an eyebrow. "Whatever you say, Ter." Deidre scowled. "I wish. But no such luck." Dana patted Terry's hand. "Don't strain too hard to see it. We women train ourselves to sense these things. If Max fell in love with somebody, I'd see it right away. Right, Max?" "Right," agreed Max, without enthusiasm -- almost bitterly. Huh. What was eating her? He'd have to ask later. Terry rolled his eyes again. "And is it just me, or is is it really tasteless to be discussing this when Mr. Holmes is standing _right over there_?" Dana and Deidre looked puzzled. They looked at each other, then back at him. "No," they chorused. Terry buried his face in his hands and muttered something that sounded like "Misogyny's looking better all the time." Dana's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?" "Joke, joke...though some people around here seem to think that's an attractive trait in a guy," Terry said, unable to give up a really good opportunity for sarcasm even though he _knew_ Dana would make him pay. "Mr. Holmes doesn't hate women!" Deidre said indignantly. "He just doesn't trust them." "Oh, _there's_ a big difference." Max came out of her funk and grinned. "I sure hope so, seeing as there ain't a man born who ain't afraid of women. And vice versa," she added, as if that made it better. "We're not afraid of women," Wiggins insisted. "What he said," Terry added, but without much conviction. This was a no-win discussion. Terry stopped in his tracks as Dana put her hand on his arm. "Maybe not afraid, exactly," she replied," but I think a lot of guys have a hard time with trust. I mean, I know you doesn't tell me everything, Terry." She looked up at him so wistfully he couldn't help feeling guilty. "It's like there's this big black hole in the middle of your life that not even light can escape. I know you're a nice guy so I know it's not anything bad, but you still have secrets." Her eyes released him as she turned to Max. "And I bet he does the same thing to you." "Well, a friend gets to hear more from him about some things. But then, a friend doesn't have nearly the power to hurt someone that a girlfriend does, and a friend doesn't hear the same stuff as a girlfriend." Max turned her own dark gaze on him. "But yeah, there are times I think Terry doesn't really trust me, either." Now that was a low blow. Just because he kept trying to get her to stay away from the action so she wouldn't get hurt.... Gah! "Don't think this hasn't been interesting," Terry cut in, desperate to excuse himself from this little talk, "but I think I better start getting food on the table if we ever want to eat." Two seconds later, something crashed outside Wayne Manor with a sickening crunch. He looked across the room toward the band of picture windows and saw flames sprout up from the wreckage of a flying car. A breath later, an explosion shattered the glass. Blast pressed against him like a wall. There was a moment of silence before thunder crashed, and the rain began to blow inside. He looked around. Everyone had been standing on the other side of the room. People looked startled but not hurt. Beth and Commissioner Gordon had produced weapons. Then he heard a groan outside. A bedraggled man in a shredded business coverall dragged himself up from the grass and limped toward the hole in the wall. "Federal agent," he announced, holding up the remains of an ID. "NSA. We're looking for a dangerous synthoid...." His boyish voice ran down, and he sagged toward the wall. He put out his hand to catch himself -- right over a jagged shard of glass. "Don't!" Terry warned. It was too late. The NSA agent picked his hand up again and looked at the cut curiously. "Ow." Then he fainted.