Previously in Justice League…

They are Earth’s greatest heroes, united in a common goal against threats too large to face alone. Standing for truth, justice and freedom, they form the Justice League.

Gathered for the first time to oppose a monster from the stars, Superman, Batman, the Flash, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, Aquaman and the Martian Manhunter, stand at the precipice of a new venture. By their collective might, the heroes stand victorious over the cosmic conqueror.

But evil never rests for long…

EXECUTIVE ORDER

Part I

By Miranda Sparks

Somewhere, Somewhen:

Walker Gabriel hated this town, and everyone in it. They knew a suit off the rack from a bargain outlet when they saw one, and were the kind who turned their nose at the guy who thought it good enough. A tourist being gauche was one thing, but a local?

What he didn’t hate was the money. Money was more agreeable than people, and money made friends with just about anyone. So long as he had cash, what did he care about jerks giving him the side eye? He didn’t need fashion to buy and sell them a thousand times over, more.

And he worked hard for the money, too. Most bajillionaires came out of predatory investment and circumstance – never earning their fortune in a real sense – but Walker? He put in the hard yards. Harder than most people can imagine.

And the people who paid for his uniquely specialized skill set paid big. If ever there was a reason to stick around, it was that.

It was a Monday, or a Thursday – or all Thursdays. Somewhen around half past the Middle Ages and the invention of the quantum computer. America, maybe. Sunset Boulevard? One of them.

No amount of scrubbing could clear the sin from the streets. At some point they gave up and polished over it. Repackaged, rebranded, grime becomes aesthetic, bile becomes a health food, poverty an exercise in minimalism. All that for the have-nots to look at the opulence denied them and smile.

Whatever.

That day he had a meeting with Mr. Uxas, CEO of [REDACTED] Media. Clients don’t come much bigger.

Everything in the man’s office was hard with a matte black finish. The waiting room chairs were carved out of marble, no doubt to put negotiators on edge. A sharp eye could pick the coarse layer, same as a shark’s flesh, serrated on a micro level.

Walker opted to stand.

At least the coffee was good. Mr. Uxas’ receptionist, Lashina, must have been a barista in a former life. She’d added a shot of hazelnut syrup, just how he liked it.

“Mr. Uxas will see you now,” she said.

There was a sharpness to her husky voice, both daring a man to think of her in a sexual way while also warning against it. And yet of all [REDACTED] Media’s staff, she was the least dangerous. Maybe that’s why she sat at the front desk.

The big man had a floor all to himself. An office without walls – only tinted windows overlooking sunsets that had no business at that time of day. Stranger still was the way those sunsets burned on every horizon.

In the middle of the floor was a long obsidian table standing waist height. There was only one chair at the end. It had a high back, and only the boss was afforded the luxury to sit.

Mr. Uxas – ‘John’ to exactly no-one – was as imposing a figure as any could imagine. So large, in fact, that there wasn’t enough blood to color his pale, stone-like flesh. He was cold all over, radiating a chill that prickled the room, until you peered into his eyes, which pierced like daggers from hell.

Unlike Walker, Mr. Uxas needed the sharp suits, specially tailored for his exclusive wear. They probably came by prescription – medical grade finery to cover the sickness marinating his soul. But it was a sickness that made him strong, more robust; even more so the longer it festered.

Nobody spoke ill of Mr. Uxas – not in this industry or any other. To do so was career suicide, among others.

Walker never questioned Mr. Uxas, or his money.

When he entered, the big man was chewing on a cigar the size of a buick, and talking to an invisible someone through a bluetooth device.

“Justice League versus the Secret Society is happening, with or without him.” Mr. Uxas grimaced deeper than any man could. “Recast Luthor with Michael Cera in the role. Half the audience won’t know the difference. If he doesn’t like it, he can come to me himself.”

That was all he needed to say. A direct conversation with Mr. Uxas had but one result. The tone shifted on the other end of the receiver. Balance was restored.

The call ended without ceremony.

“Mr. Gabriel,” he said. “A pleasure, as always.”

They say you can tell a lot about a man by his handshake. Then by virtue of the truism, it could be said that mountains were the lesser of Mr. Uxas; his stature, in both the worlds of business and business people, was a divine right he’d justly claimed.

Walker shook the executive’s finger as best he was able.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks.”

So imposing was Mr. Uxas that one could easily overlook the crooked gentleman with the greasy combover standing at his side. He smiled a smile on slivers of lips too wide for his face, and devoured Walker’s presence with eyes too large for the rest of him.

“This is my attorney, Mr. Emilio DeSaad, of DeSaad, Bathory, Torquemada and Associates,” Mr. Uxas explained.

“Mr. Gabriel,” the lawyer said, dryly.

“Chronos.”

Mr. DeSaad straightened his posture. “I beg your pardon?”

“I prefer that clients call me ‘Chronos’,” Walker said. It was impersonal, even distant, just the way he preferred.

Mr. Uxas didn’t call him ‘Chronos’, but no matter. Mr. Uxas could do as he pleased.

“Chronos, then,” Mr. DeSaad continued and marched across the floor to hand him a manilla envelope.

Inside was a lengthy four-dimensional dossier describing a lesser universe; one of what was regarded as the vulgar, ill-formed realities spawned off the back of others. A clone in most aspects, with only minor differences, particularly in the vicinity of the twenty to twenty-first century Earth.

Walker – ‘Chronos’ – was no stranger to these worlds. Dealing with them was his job. And Mr. Uxas was more than aggressive when it came to what he was entitled.

“Says here there are two ‘Omega’ universes,” he mused aloud. “One is very relevant to your concerns. The other is clustered with M-”

“The other is a concern for our rivals,” said Mr. Uxas. “My interest lies exclusively with my property.”

Of course. It couldn’t be any other way.

No further explanation was required. It was the same job, ad infinitum. A simple scrub. Eighty years – a hundred to be certain – and the eradication of copyrighted material. No biggie, at least for him.

Walker nodded. “Not to worry, sir. I’ll have it cleaned in seventy-two hours, relative time.”

“I can always rely on you, Mr. Gabriel,” the big man said. Deathly plumes shot out of his nose, and he’d yet to inhale the cigar.

On any other day that attitude would piss him off to no end, but Walker knew better than to give in to pride. Mr. Uxas owned the world – too many worlds; his included.

Earth ‘Omega’, Happy Harbor:

Speculation was one thing, confirmation was another. Had the Martian Manhunter a stomach, dread would have struck the bottom.

“One-Ceres has shifted from its orbit,” Batman said, “and is on a collision course with the Earth.”

One-Ceres, until that point, was the largest object in Sol’s asteroid belt, situated between Mars and Jupiter. With a diameter of five hundred and eighty miles, it outranked its brethren with ‘dwarf planet’ status. Its sudden interest in the Earth, however, was a mystery with life and death stakes.

“You don’t think it’s a natural occurrence,” J’onn said.

He didn’t, either. Given the plethora of information collated from sources independent of one another, there was no reason for a dwarf planet to make that kind of turn.

But who had the power to execute such a move? Those names made too long a list to allow for comfort.

“Most of the solar system is empty space,” Batman continued. “What are the odds of one celestial body suddenly being attracted to another over three hundred million kilometres away?”

The edge in the Dark Knight’s tone was in no way dulled by his remote presence. The communications equipment, newly installed in the Justice League’s mountain base, writ large their concerns over a series of monitors.

J’onn J’onzz stilled his spirit, and by extension the shape of a man he’d adopted for the sake of others. His power, alien to those of this world, conferred him with the duty of its care, because few others could. And, H’ron’meer help him, he’d grown sentimental for this planet’s kind.

“It’s rate of acceleration gives credence to your theory, Batman,” he said.

“Something, or someone, has Earth on their hit-list.”

J’onn knew, deep in his soul, that he would always be haunted by the destruction of his home. In truth, it was a hurt he hoped would never heal, as though to heal would be to forget – his wife, his children, his family and friends. The closest he had to a balm were his actions in the present, working to prevent another people from sharing the fate of his own.

He’d already seen one world reduced to a graveyard. Ceres’ impact would leave less than that.

“First thing’s first,” the Martian said. “According to my calculations, we have less than three days to immobilize the threat; preferably by returning One-Ceres to its original orbit, by altering its trajectory, or if need be destroying it entire-”

The lights blinked out, as did the monitors. The hum of the supercomputer droned into silence.

Suddenly, J’onn was in the dark, alone in the expanse of the headquarters. The predicament might have been terrifying for a human. J’onn, on the other hand, was more wary of the presence with him – he who was the herald of the dark.

“Batman?”

No. Batman had nothing to do with this.

The backup generator kicked to life, bringing light to the cavern, and in doing so revealed a man who had no earthly business being there.

J’onn muted his surprise. Experience demanded control. Yet he remained ill at ease. On both Earth and Mars, the appearance of a stranger – especially in so secret a place – was rarely a good omen.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

The gray-haired stranger – either a grizzled thirty-something or in his early forties – looked around, unfazed by the presence of a man from another planet. He assessed the cave much like someone window shopping on a work break, and buried his hands in his pockets.

“Most people prefer the satellite or the Watchtower on the moon,” he remarked. “Me, I dig the cave. It’s rustic. Down to earth. Literally. Heh.”

What was he talking about? J’onn wasn’t much sure he cared.

“I’ll say it once,” the Martian pressed. “Leave.”

“I will, once I’ve finished,” he said.

The stranger fished a stop-watch out of his pocket, the significance of which was lost on J’onn. Know it or not, the Martian – or versions of him – had witnessed this transformation a thousand times or more. At no time did he ever reckon with the manner of power he faced.

Walker Gabriel clicked the button atop the watch, activating the mechanics inside. Nano-machines charged with chronitons crawled over his body, weaving an illustrious costume of silver and sapphire.

J’onn inched back, sensing an ill aura from the interloper. As alien as he was, this man was more alien still.

“Call me Chronos,” he said. “Not that you’ll remember.”

“Don’t test me,” said the Martian Manhunter. “I’m more powerful than you can imagine.”

He tensed his brow, sharpening his mind to a point. It reached, unseen, to this Chronos figure, who for all appearances was only human. Humans, by and large, were not psychically developed as martians, for whom telepathy was the primary means of communication. Evolution left the homo sapien vulnerable to the martian’s most basic function.

Though when touching upon Chronos, J’onn found only a cloud of numbness – a psychic static, that his mind could not reach. There was a presence there, but nothing solid – nothing that his telepathy could beat against.

Chronos snickered. “I have a pretty big imagination.”

J’onn huffed. “Then we’ll settle this the traditional way!”

He vaulted, cape billowing behind him, throwing a fist with the force of a prize fighter. It was a testing blow, mindful of the enemy’s right to life. Like Superman or Wonder Woman, J’onn could just as easily punch a hole through a mountain – more than the average body could stand.

Whether by his own strength or the power of his suit, Chronos caught the blow and countered with a knee to the gut. It landed like a semi-trailer, and without the consideration J’onn had given in turn.

The Martian Manhunter flew back to gather himself. His ego suffered more than anything else. He would not be caught out a second time.

Chronos was a brawler, taking aim at ribs, kidneys, eyes – and of course, the family jewels. He struck without reservation, aiming to dish out pain and damage in equal measure. Nobody, it seemed, had told him that no part of a martian’s anatomy was any stronger or more vulnerable than others.

Yet J’onn played along, half-twisting-half-absorbing each strike, working in the hope this Chronos fellow would wear himself out. Failing that, he may yet show a weakness in his technique a more refined fighter might exploit.

The Martian Manhunter grew tired of their sparring, and wooshed through the room like a spectre. He reconstituted himself on the League’s round table, inflating his presence in an intimidating display.

“Enough games!” he said. “You will not best me, Chronos. Tell me what you are doing here, so that I may deal with you properly!”

J’onn wasn’t joking, but the intruder laughed all the same.

“You haven’t seen the best part,” Chronos said. “Wait until you see my trophy collection.”

A shimmering sword materialised in his hand. It was more machine than it was blade, with circuitry running down its length. The unnatural waves rolled off the device with greater intensity than they did their owner.

J’onn braced. He was a fool to not act sooner. Now was the time to go on the offensive!

Chronos sliced the air, and did so again, and again, and again. His alien device carved four gashes into the fabric of reality. Each bled with the incandescent substance lining the membrane between universes. To what end?

The Martian Manhunter halted, not game to press through them. This ‘Chronos’ character was more formidable than he appeared.

He could hear the villain smile under his helmet. “Wait for it…”

Chronos latched the stop-watch onto the hilt of his sword, then clicked the top button four times. Each cosmic wound flared, responding to the calculations flashing along the digital face of the device.

It droned in a synthetic voice. “ACCESS SYSTEM: EARTH, POST-CRISIS > BLUE BEETLE, BOOSTER GOLD, BLACK CANARY, CAPTAIN ATOM.”

Some of the names were familiar. What did they have to do with this chaos?

His jaw fell when the slices in reality took shape – the shapes of people! Three men, and a woman; one in blue, one in gold, one in black, and one whose skin was chrome. They stood in a uniform wide stance with vacant faces, like dolls.

‘Trophies,’ Chronos called them.

“You’re a collector,” he gasped.

Chronos shrugged. “Perks of the job. You don’t know it, but these guys were once your teammates. Now they’re going to finish you.”

Another tragedy, and lost friends he couldn’t remember? It had to be a joke – a cruel one, designed to rattle his spirit. But J’onn would have none of it. The Manhunter hardened his resolve, and charged at the ghosts.

They were a force to be reckoned with. Worthy, perhaps, of the newly minted Justice League. But J’onn afforded them no sentiment. He weaved between sonic shrieks and nuclear blasts, and knocked them back with the concussive force of his own ‘martian vision’.

Chronos stretched, swishing his blade on the other side of the gauntlet. J’onn didn’t need to see his eyes to know they were challenging him.

The computer console blinked to life, and a projection of Batman’s face appeared on the central monitor.

“J’onn! What’s your situation?”

The scene itself – the sounds, and what of it fell into the camera’s view – was evident. 

Batman grimaced. “Hold on. You’ve got the Flash, Superman and Green Lantern incoming!”

Reinforcements! Thank H’ron’meer!

Black and blue charged one flank, gold and silver the other. The Martian Manhunter swelled his arms to the size of tree trunks, and with inhuman force beat the phantoms to the ground. His malleable flesh seared against their blasts and gadgets, but J’onn held his own. The pain was negligible in the scheme of things.

He turned, and with eyes as red as his native martian soil, narrowed on the true enemy – this ‘wizard’ of machine and magic.

“I hope you have enough ‘trophies’ for my friends,” the Manhunter remarked. “You’re going to need them.”

Chronos didn’t falter. “Your friends’ll never make it in time,” he said. Why did he sound so sure? What did he know that J’onn didn’t?

Every fiber of the Manhunter’s being screamed that this was a trap. That somehow his allies would only make things worse. He had to finish this, and quickly, for reasons not even he knew.

Batman roared through the comms. “J’onn! Get out… of… theeeeeeeere!”

Time dripped like molasses. Though his awareness ran in real time, both he and the phantoms waded through the seconds, willing them in vain to pass. The spittle flying from Batman’s mouth froze on camera.

There would be no running. The Martian Manhunter would have to face the threat head on. Not out of pride, but because Chronos gave him little recourse. The villain, unlike the world around him, was unhindered.

J’onn turned, shifting from solid to liquid, and threw his body like a tidal wave. It was a last ditch effort to make or break his victory.

Chronos didn’t back away. Rather, he charged his weapon.

“See you in the next life,” he said, and ran the point through green martian flesh.

It was unlike any weapon to ever wound J’onn before, and there had been many. The sword didn’t merely rend his body, but eradicated it in the truest sense. 

Like many on the verge of death, J’onn saw his life flash before his eyes – not just the past, but the many futures that could have been. Where for others they might have been a comfort, the Manhunter despaired as he watched them topple backward into nothingness.

The blow struck not only his body, but his spirit as well. There would be nothing left of him to migrate to the Great Song. J’onn J’onzz would not move on to the afterlife; he would not see his wife and children again.

If only there were someone to save him.

He cried out in an ethereal voice that transcended space and time, the last words of a man on the brink of oblivion.

“JUSTICE LEAGUE!”

They echoed across the psychic plane, from Metropolis to Celestial City and beyond. But who would hear them?

Who?

The Batcave:

The Dark Knight hunched over the display and gripped the panel until knuckles turned white. His heart beat under the layer of control trained into him, why? All he saw was static.

Static, and…

He stood and searched the cave. Something important needed his attention, but what? It was right there, on the top of his brain, just out of reach.

Batman slowed, knowing better than to give into panic. Panic helped nobody, least of all him. Panic, like rage, like any unregulated emotion, shut down the logical portion of the brain, making him reactive instead of proactive.

Yet no matter how much he adjusted his breathing, the sought after thought evaded him.

He returned to the static with a sense of ‘jamais vu’, as though the custom piece of communications equipment specified to order had just appeared. Was he going crazy?

No. Never crazy. Crazy meant he couldn’t trust himself. Crazy meant he was doing the wrong thing, regardless of intent.

It had to be something else.

“Sir?”

There it was, filed on the third open case tab. One-Ceres, twenty-fifth largest object orbiting Sol, formerly situated in the asteroid belt, now hurtling toward the Earth like a cosmic bullet. It spelled death on a scale undreamed, of not just life on the planet, but the planet itself. Earth could withstand extinction, not obliteration.

Strange place to be for something so important.

“Sir,” Alfred repeated to no avail. He sighed and laid a tray down in his master’s periphery.

“I’d send you to bed without supper, but given how you neither sleep nor eat it seems a toothless threat,” he remarked.

Batman smirked so slightly even his oldest friend wouldn’t notice. Then it was back to business.

“A dwarf planet breaks away from its orbit, accelerates, and makes a proverbial bee-line toward the most densely populated planet in the solar system,” Batman growled. “Coincidence?”

That was the thought, he was sure of it. That was the only reason so terrible a notion could feel right. 

Alfred froze. “Are you suggesting we pack a suitcase?” he asked.

Batman grunted. It was as valid an idea as any.

“Sounds like the sort of business suited to the capes and tights contingent, present company excepted,” the butler said. “Perhaps you should talk to your reporter friend in Metropolis. Encourage his associate to pitch asteroids until it turns the other way.”

The thought had crossed his mind, but Clark Kent was at the bottom of the Dark Knight’s speed dial. Not out of dislike – the reporter had the charm of an old farm dog – but because he didn’t like to lean on anyone, especially civilians. Delegating, necessary though it sometimes was, made him complacent.

Then there was the discomfort of revealing himself to a third party. Asking for help was one thing – asking friends of friends was… awkward.

But what could he, a mortal man, do against a rogue planet?

“I’ll make some calls,” he said.

“If you do make contact with that Superman fellow, ask after his tailor. A new pair of ‘super-tights’ might save me some patching in future.”

Batman tensed. There was still something he was forgetting… wasn’t there?

“Alfred.”

The butler, who’d already descended to the next platform, turned.

Batman pulled off his mask and scratched his forehead, but the itch was deeper than he could reach. “Do the words ‘Justice League’ mean anything to you?”

Alfred cocked a brow. “Sounds like a gentlemen’s club for civic-minded lawyers,” he remarked. “Why, sir? Is it important?”

“No,” he lied, and sunk into his chair.

Something wasn’t right. It had never been right, and so long as it clawed in the back of his mind things would never be right again. Mysteries were one thing when there was a result, something to work from in reverse – but this was something else.

NEXT ISSUE: What fate has befallen the Martian Manhunter? And what dangers lie ahead for the now forgotten Justice League? This and more in part two of ‘Executive Order’!