Our Last Echo

3

Late in the afternoon, he heard Diana's voice among the crowd of media gathering on the perimeter. He had been aware of the media there all day: cameras filming as he and the others worked, a steady stream of voices as correspondents broadcast live reports and sought interviews with anyone who came close enough. Tyler simply stayed away, letting them film and photograph him from a distance but concentrating on his tasks. Now Diana was among them.

He asked Roy, the supervisor, if he could be excused for a few minutes.

"You've been working ten hours without even a bathroom break," Roy pointed out. "Go."

Tyler headed toward Diana's voice. Flashbulbs and video cameras turn his way. Questions were fired from all sides.

For most of the day a part of Tyler's mind had been working on what he needed to say and how to handle the press aspect of this. He located Diana in the crowd and made eye contact. She smiled, and that alone was enough to send his spirit soaring. He raised his hands, turning toward the thickest part of the crowd, and waited for quiet.

Slowly, the babble of questions ceased.

Tyler raised his voice. "I know you have a lot of questions. I want to answer them, but there is a lot still to do here and I think it's more important right now that we save as many lives as possible. I hope you can be patient."

He saw Diana carefully pushing her way through the crowd, making her way to the front.

"I don't have any words that are enough for what happened here. It wasn't my choice, but I am still responsible. I can't change it, but I'm here to do what I can to help."

"What do you have to say to the families of those who died here?" A woman journalist thrust a microphone toward him.

A male voice yelled, "Are you going to turn yourself in?"

"Diana Lane, Daily Planet." Diana pushed the woman with the microphone aside as she reached the front of the crowd. "They are calling you Kovalan. Is that your name now?"

She couldn't have asked a more perfect question if they had planned it. Diana had given him the angle he needed to take back control of the story. He gave her a grateful smile.

"The entire world knows my name," he answered, looking at her. He rose into the air slightly, just enough to let them all see. "General Scyro came here looking for Tyler Wake. But I chose the people of this planet over my own, so perhaps I no longer have a right to that name." Tyler let his gaze roam over the other journalists. He met each pair of eyes, briefly but long enough for each to know he had noticed them.

"'Kovalan' was the code name the US military used for me during the invasion. If I need a new name, it should be the one I was given here." He turned to the first reporter who had spoken. "What can I say to the families of the dead? No words will help, or bring back the people Scyro killed in his search for me. Do you want me to say sorry? I am. I feel the weight of every one of them, and if I could change it, I would." Tyler looked for the one who asked if he would turn himself in. That was a trickier question. "It's not for me to decide if there's a crime to answer for here. I have lived among you for a long time, as an American citizen, and I respect the laws and constitution of this country. If I am charged with a crime, I will answer for it, like any other American. I won't be hard to find."

Tyler sought out Diana again. She smiled and mouthed the word Later. Tyler rose a bit higher into the air. "Now, if you will all excuse me, I must get back to work. There are people still trapped in there."

Paris

The photograph on the front page of Le Monde seemed to sum up the tragedy in Metropolis. It was a close-up of one of the volunteers who had spent the day digging through the rubble. A protective mask that had covered his lower face was pulled down to his chin and the clean skin around his mouth stood out in stark contrast to the thick layer of dust that clung to his hair and clothing, that filled the lines around his eyes. It was the eyes that the photographer had captured so perfectly it almost had to be digitally altered. Those eyes, dark windows into a soul filled with rage, caught the light in just the right way for the photographer to capture the reflection in the cornea: the endless rows of dead bodies the unknown man had spent the day extracting from the rubble of Metropolis' tallest buildings.