At the moment, a pair of technicians was inspecting the last surviving version of the Bat. The original prototype had been vaporized over the ocean, months ago, but Fox had salvaged a variant model whose components had survived Bane’s incursion. The techs were running a systems analysis from the cockpit. Both had passed a rigorous background check before being allowed anywhere near the premises.

“Why worry about the stabilization software?” the senior tech asked impatiently. “This whole autopilot system’s obsolete.”

“Please,” Lucius said. “I just need to know what I could’ve done to fix it.”

The junior technician gave him a puzzled look.

“But, Mr. Fox, it’s already been fixed.” He called up a diagnostic display on the instrument panel. “Software patch…six months ago.”

Six months ago?

“Check the user ident on the patch,” Fox suggested. Who on Earth?

The tech keyed in the request. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Huh? Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce?

Lucius stepped away from the aircraft, trying to conceal his reaction. An idea began to form in his mind, as clearly as an engineering diagram. A weight slowly lifted from his shoulders.

Well, as I live and breathe…

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The woods were miles outside the city, in the middle of nowhere. Blake sat in his car, staring in confusion at the GPS device he held in his hand. The sports bag sat open on the seat beside him. A slip of paper bearing a set of coordinates rested inside, on top of some climbing ropes and other gear.

Puzzled, he double-checked the coordinates. Yep, he was heading in the right direction.

Oh, what the hell, he thought. He’d come this far. So he exited the car, closing the bag and hefting it onto his shoulder.

The GPS guided him toward the waiting trees. Sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy overhead. The forest floor crunched beneath his boots. It looked like he had a hike ahead of him.

Okay, Wayne, he thought. Let’s see what this is all about.

* * *

It was evening in Florence, Italy. A newspaper under his arm, Alfred strolled down to his favorite cafe. He sat down at his usual table.

“Seulement?” the waiter asked.

“Oui,” Alfred answered. “Fernet-Branca, s’il vous plait.” He settled in for another quiet evening by the Arno.

The GPS led Blake to a rather impressive waterfall. A wide curtain of water cascaded down a rocky cliff face. He stared up at the falls, feeling the cool spray against his face. Then he checked the coordinates one more time.

There was nowhere to go but up.

Well, he thought, this explains the climbing gear, at least.

He opened the bag and uncoiled the ropes.

Commissioner Gordon stepped out onto the roof, making his nightly escape from the hubbub of the department. In the aftermath of the Bane incident, and given his part in saving Gotham, the Harvey Dent scandal had been quickly forgotten. Gordon figured he had the job for life—if he wanted it.