Black Sun and the Bat-Lamp (Part 2)

"Hello? Put me through to the Godfather, thank you."

"Good afternoon, Godfather. I’d like to discuss a business deal with you…"

In the office of Arkham Asylum, Schiller put down the phone. He tugged at the cord, blew the dust off the receiver, then poured himself a drink. Picking up the old-fashioned phone, he turned the dial and said, "Hello? Brand? You made it to Hawaii?… No, don’t worry. Enjoy your vacation. I can handle it."

A while later, Bruce walked in and placed a stack of documents in front of Schiller. Schiller said, "Work’s over. Want a drink?"

"Thank you, I don’t drink."

"You look a little worn out."

"After all, I haven’t slept in nearly fifty hours."

"Of course. That giant Bat-Lamp you built has been lighting up constantly lately. All of Gotham knows there’s a Batman now."

"But…" Bruce sighed. After hesitating, he said, "I’ll have a drink. Thank you."

"What could make Batman drown his sorrows?"

Bruce said, "I don’t think I should have done this. Bats don’t light lamps. They shouldn’t light lamps."

Before Schiller could ask, Bruce continued, "I set up six Bat-Lamps across Gotham. Over the last few days, they went off twenty-five times. Nineteen of those were pranks."

"So I designed security measures for them. After that, I received twelve calls for help, all from gangs shooting it out, asking me to back them up."

"When I refused to let gangs use them, they desperately tried to destroy them. Of course, I designed security protocols, and they worked pretty well. Then poor people and beggars started pressing them, and the next day, the gangs killed them."

Bruce covered his face. He took a deep breath, then drank. With difficulty, he swallowed the liquor and said, "People beyond saving won’t let anyone else be saved either. If this is Gotham, then fine. I was too naive."

"I knew it… no bat lights a lamp," Bruce said at last.

"I suggest you take a few days off. You run into a problem, sacrifice your rest to solve it, then run into a new problem and do the same thing again. It’s a vicious cycle. You need to stop. It won’t do you any good."

Bruce said tiredly, "All right. I’ll go home and sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll come to work—photocopy medical records, answer phones, make rounds, whatever."

The next day, Bruce indeed showed up for work on time, just as he had said. Schiller was already in the office, drinking a steaming cup of coffee. Bruce made himself an Americano as well and began reading a paper.

After a while, a female nurse knocked and entered. "Doctor, Andre in Room 5 on the second floor has been making a scene. He keeps demanding that we increase his morphine painkiller dosage, or he says he’ll file a complaint against us."

Without even looking up, Schiller said flatly, "Give it to him. Triple market price. If he keeps making noise, make it five times."

Bruce nearly choked on his coffee.

"Bird on the third floor wants us to prescribe him headache medicine. He made a fuss all night."

"Tell him the pill dealer fell off the railing yesterday. Landed on his head. He’s out of stock now."

"The one in Room 6…" Schiller flipped through the files. "…Hall or Gaul, was it? Does he have connections? Tell him to send someone in. Seventy-thirty split."

After the nurse left, before Bruce could say anything, the phone rang again. Schiller picked it up while reading the files.

"Hello? The whiskey supply got cut off?… Right, I have the last bottle. Who was it that said he had a bar? Let me see… Room 1 on the fourth floor. Have him run a line from the bar over here. Tell him not to try passing off watered-down stuff, or I’ll write him a diagnosis recommending permanent treatment…"

Schiller hung up, picked up the receiver again, and dialed another number. Into the phone, he said:

"Tell them no Assassins are allowed in. If they want in, they need a main gate pass—one hundred thousand dollars each. The Inpatient Department gate is fifty thousand, and above the third floor there’s another thirty thousand wear-and-tear fee. Buy the full package and they get a security patrol map for free…"

"Hello? The equipment department said the brainwave machine broke yesterday. Whose man is in Room 2 on the fifth floor? Old Band of East End? Have him donate a machine and take his guy away. He can come pick up the rehabilitation recommendation later."

After hanging up, Bruce said, "Professor…"

Before he could finish, the phone rang again. Schiller answered, "Hello?… The negotiations fell through? Tell him the Twin Brothers in the south offered five hundred thousand dollars, and it isn’t even a buyout. If he doesn’t agree, he won’t get a single cent from the liquor business here."

"Hello? No, Arkham Asylum security is currently handled by the Falcone family. If he wants to force his way in, let him come. The Godfather sends his regards."

Schiller had just hung up when Bruce seized the chance to say, "Isn’t something about this a little—"

"Hello? How many people tomorrow?… No, that Little Vulture can’t be squeezed for much. He’s nowhere near as good as his father. Send him to prison. I don’t take junk here… He got hold of his father’s business? Fine, save Room 7 on the second floor for him… What? A diagnosis certificate? That costs extra…"

"…Drag the other three out until next month. Have the judge come up with some excuse—diarrhea or something. There’s no room on the fifth floor… Another cop? A dirty cop? He got found out?… We take mental illness here, not intellectual disabilities. If he wants in, he can go find his old boss…"

"Who else? No, he won’t do… Already arrested? Then have the police put the evidence back. Find that guy named Brock. He’ll understand…"

When Schiller finally finished and looked up, Bruce was staring at him. His expression was complicated—part shock, as if asking how this could be possible, and part disdain, as if it was exactly what he had expected.

"Don’t look at me like that. The hospital is running smoothly now, isn’t it?"

"But…"

Bruce opened his mouth. He wanted to question Schiller, but for a moment, he had no idea where to begin.

"I made a deal with Falcone. He has Black Gloves provoke some profitable gangs, then has the police commissioner under his control arrest and try them. I issue psychiatric diagnosis certificates and admit them here. After that, it depends on whether their employers or their enemies pay more."

Bruce stared at Schiller. Schiller spread his hands. "What? You find that unbelievable? Or did you really think I was a good man like Harvey? What gave you that impression?"

Bruce was speechless.

Over the next few days, Bruce watched helplessly as Schiller, unable to beat them, joined them… no, not even joined them. He creatively conjured an entirely new Gotham-style industrial chain out of thin air.

His dear professor had merged into Gotham at lightning speed, never looking back, leaving everyone else in the dust—and somehow surpassing the city at its own game.

But Bruce could not say much. In this perfect Gotham industrial chain, only the gangs got hurt.

Judging by the results, the gangs got fleeced, Arkham Asylum rapidly established order, the medical staff became safer, and every gang member in the hospital behaved impeccably. When Bruce made his rounds, he found that these gang bosses even said thank you to him, damn it!

They thought Bruce was a Doctor who could prescribe painkillers. Some gang bosses saw that he was close to Schiller and offered him cigars every day to build rapport, hoping Schiller would ease up and let them run a line in too.

Once, Bruce followed Schiller to review case files. During a break, he heard gang bosses chatting next door.

"Colt’s a bad kid, a complete bastard. He got himself some absinthe, then had someone smash up the other place just to monopolize the liquor business here. He got into a conflict with those twins…"

"I’d say he handled it cleanly. It’s a business worth millions of dollars, after all."

"Is it really worth that much?"

"That redhead downstairs made twenty thousand dollars in one week selling cigarettes here! Who doesn’t smoke here? Who doesn’t smoke cigars? He can get good stuff from the docks, and some people even come in specifically to get access to that smuggling route…"

"Room 2 made a fortune too. Everyone knows he got lucky and got connected to the Godfather. Next quarter, he’ll have another restaurant."

"When the nurses come by later, put out all your cigarettes. Be careful not to piss off those girls. They’re all Black Widows working for Queen of Hearts…"

In just those few days, everything Bruce saw in the hospital left him with an incredibly complicated and conflicted feeling.

Bruce thought, What would I have done in his place? He thought for a long time, then admitted that he truly could not come up with a more efficient and aboveboard solution.

One night, Schiller was in a ward, speaking to a woman with no feet. "Not bad. The medication is taking effect. The manic state will disappear soon…"

The woman lay in bed, very calm—or perhaps numb—as though she could not hear Schiller at all. Yet Schiller continued speaking to himself. "There have been rather a lot of cases lately, but it’s all right. The psychological treatment is nearly over…"

His voice suited a night like this, always carrying a kind of tranquil strength.

When Schiller turned around, he found Batman standing behind him. Batman asked in a low voice, "How did she get transferred here?"

"You cured this beggar’s physical problems and completed her amputation surgery, but she has congenital mental issues. She was sent here before…"

Schiller glanced at Batman. The corners of Batman’s mouth always turned downward. Compared with daytime, he always seemed colder and sharper at night, difficult to approach.

"You seem surprised. What, did you think I only consorted with gangs? What gave you that impression?"

Batman remained silent. Schiller ignored him, turned back, lowered the woman’s bed, then pulled the blanket up over her.

Without looking at Batman, Schiller simply asked, "Are you disappointed?"

"In this ungrateful city? In those people who are not worth saving, and who won’t let you save anyone else?"

"Do you think the Bat-Lamp was the right decision?" Batman’s deep voice echoed through the ward.

Schiller paused, then said:

"Don’t be disappointed. A black sun is still a sun. Bats indeed do not light lamps, but a lamp lit by a bat in the night is still a lamp."

Cold light fell across the hospital’s white sheets. Schiller bent down and smoothed the sheet at the corner of the bed.

Outside the window, Gotham’s night was still faintly lit. Schiller straightened and turned to look outside. Batman saw that Schiller stood against the light, moonlight casting a long shadow behind him.

Batman raised his head. Covering more than half the wall and ceiling was his shadow—a pitch-black bat with pointed ears.

Bats did not light lamps. He did not even have a lamp that could illuminate himself. In this world, no lamp had ever shone for him; for many years, there had not been even the faintest firefly glow.

But now, this bat had still decided to learn how to light a lamp—for this dark night, for this hopeless city.

Batman looked out the window too, toward those scattered, nearly invisible points of light in the darkness. He thought that if this absurd city one day never saw the sun rise again, then at least, on the eve of the end, in this cold night of feeble lights, there would still be a lamp he had lit.

A lamp that shone even though one lamp was useless, even though it was useless.

A lamp lit by a bat.