- 1 -
Being hit by the ray would have meant the end for most men - but then I am not most men. My brain, the repository for my magnificent intellect could not, must not be allowed to die!
Fortunately, I had a plan that could be brought forward, a plan that would ensure it didn't.
I felt groggy when I awoke, the result of the anaesthetic wearing off, but when I raised a hand and looked at my fingers I knew the operation had been a success. They were slender and tapered to long, elegantly shaped and painted nails - a woman's fingers. I sat up, the sheet that had been covering my body slipping down me to reveal the green silk dress cladding my body, hugging my tiny waist and shapely figure.
"Whoa, don't exert yourself too much yet," said someone, as he grasped my shoulders, steadying me. This was Dr Marten, the man who had performed the procedure.
"Bring me a mirror!" I ordered, snapping my fingers, momentarily surprised on hearing my new voice for the first time.
One of my assistants came forward with a hand-mirror and I studied my face avidly.
"The beautiful Dolores Winters, Hollywood movie star," I said, chuckling with delight, "and now her beauty is mine."
I'd turned the clock back two decades and was now 22 years old once more. I touched the feint red line on my forehead, all that remained from having this body's scalp removed at the hairline so that the top of the skull could be lifed and my brain transplanted. Already the line was fading; soon it would be gone.
"That should take weeks to heal," said Marten, "but thanks to that miraculous gel of yours you're already almost healed. We may be only months away from the start of the nineteen-forties now but that stuff is light years ahead of any medicine we've developed. Where did it come from?"
"That's none of your concern, Marten," I said, swinging my legs off the operating table and loving the feeling of long hair falling about my neck as I stood up. "Just be thankful that genius recognizes genius and that I knew you were the only man who could perform this procedure."
I took a few careful steps, delighted to be able to walk again after so many years in a wheelchair.
"A genius," said Marten, bitterly. "Try telling that to the medical board who took my licence, disbarring me because of my 'unorthodox experiments'."
"Fools, all of them," I said, sympathetically. "Men like you and I are cursed always to be judged by mental pygmies. Be that as it may, our business is now concluded. Rocco, pay the man."
Rocco, my lead henchman, handed Marten a fat envelope. To his credit he stuffed it into a jacket pocket without bothering to check all the money was there and that I hadn't stiffed him. Only later did I realised this was by way of concealing the vial of the miracle gel he was stealing from me.
"You'll keep my name out of this, as we agreed?"
"Of course. If it comes up I'll say it was one of my assistants who transplanted my brain into Dolores Winters' body."
"That's ridiculous!" said Marten, frowning at them.
"I know, but as Herr Goebbels over in Germany has so ably demonstrated, most people will swallow anything. What will you do now?"
"Before I leave here I need to gather up all my tools and equipment and clean them," he said. "I'll be here for a least a little while after you've left. What should I do with this?"
He pointed at the spherical receptacle I'd designed to house and maintain a living brain in a special nutrient fluid, one currently containing the disembodied brain of Dolores Winters.
"I don't care what you do with it," I replied, shrugging. "Do whatever you want."
Rocco turned to me.
"It's good to see you up and about, boss," he said, "but me and the boys was wondering - why a dame? I mean, we coulda grabbed Clark Gable or Cary Grant for you."
"Because most cops are male and underestimate women. Plus, who would ever suspect such a famous public figure as sweet Dolores Winters could be the mastermind behind a vast criminal enterprise? When they weren't being thwarted by masked 'mystery men' my various extortion schemes netted us a lot of money, as they will continue to do so. But now it's time for me to take a back seat from day-to-day operations. Let the identity of your new mastermind remain a mystery."
I glanced over to where my old, bald body was slumped in the hated wheelchair, bloody bandages littered all around.
"My former body will be found the next time this operating theatre gets used," I said, "and the Ultra-Humanite declared dead. Now it's time for you and the boys to slip out of the hospital quietly while I head on home."
"Home?" said Rocco. "Where's home?"
"Why Dolores Winters' fabulous mansion, of course."
- 2 -
Dolores had been driving her classic bright red Plymouth roadster convertible when Rocco and the boys forced her off the road then smuggled her into the operating theatre where Marten was keeping me alive. They had left it in the hospital car park, so I was able to drive it to her waterside mansion on Tolucca Lake.
What I'd told Rocco, that most cops are male and underestimate women, and that no one would ever suspect sweet Dolores Winters could be the mastermind behind a vast criminal enterprise, was perfectly true.
But that wasn't why I chose her body.
No, I chose it because from the moment she became a movie star I'd been mesmerised by her. Not because I wanted her, but wanted to *be* her. From that day forward I had studied Dolores Winters intensively, watching her movies over and over and using all the means at my disposal to learn everything there was to know about her life. This wasn't something I could tell my men if I wanted to retain their respect. Ugly, paralyzed from the waist down, and confined to a wheelchair, it wasn't a big strong, handsome man I dreamed of being but a vibrant woman whose beauty was the envy of all. And now I was that woman. Yet one thing hadn't changed; my ultimate goal was still world domination! It was only right that Earth should be ruled by a superior intellect, and whose intellect was superior to my own?
Coasting up the driveway and pulling up outside what was now *my* mansion, I parked the Plymouth and, letting muscle memory take control, vaulted over the door and trotted up the couple of steps to the mansion's imposing oak doors. These were already opening as I did so, my English butler dipping his head when he saw me.
"'Afternoon Jenkins!" I said, breezing past him.
"Good afternoon, miss," he replied. "I trust you enjoyed your morning drive?"
"Very much. I can honestly say I feel like a whole new woman!"
"Very good. Mr Danby came looking for you while you were gone. I took the liberty of installing him in the drawing room to await your return."
Lane Danby the actor? I'd read that the two were dating but I hadn't anticipated encountering him so soon. I was wondering what I should do when the decision was taken out of my hands. The doors to the drawing room were dramatically flung open and Lane stepped through them, his arms wide. He was almost ludicrously handsome and dashing, looking every inch the Hollywood leading man he was.
"Babe!" he said, flashing his trademark grin, the one the movie magazines inevitably describe as 'devil-may-care', before coming over and throwing his arms around my waist.
I was momentarily taken aback, but only momentarily. When he kissed me I was ready and I returned it eagerly, with all the passion he would expect from his girlfriend. When we came up for air he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the stairs.
"Hold the fort, Jeeves," he called his over shoulder as we ascended them. "We may be gone a while."
"That's Jenkins, sir," replied my butler dryly, a look of disapproval on his face.
Trotting up the stairs in Lane's wake, my heels clicking on their marble surface, I was feeling dazed. It was obvious he and Delores were lovers, and that he was taking me upstairs to have his way with me. That kiss had been everything I'd dreamed it would be, but things were moving faster than I was ready for. I was still a virgin, a condition imposed on me by the many years I'd been paralysed from the waist down in my old body, and though I'd been looking forward to eventually exploring sex in my new one I hadn't expected my introduction to that world to happen quite so soon.
Sex had previously been theoretical to me, the art of seduction and the joy of consummation things I'd only read about and imagined. I hadn't understood the sheer animal passion of arousal, how it wasn't something I would control but something that would take control of me. Our coupling, was raw, primal, and wonderful, draining me totally.
Lane lit two cigarettes and passed one to me. I took it and inhaled cautiously, having never smoked before. To my surprise I actually found this pleasurable. But then Dolores Winters had been a smoker which meant her body was used to them, so of course I would.
It suddenly dawned on me that despite having just had sex, I had yet to see what I looked like naked. So I got up and padded over to the antique cheval mirror near the closets. As I stood there, smoking my cigarette and admiring my lovely new body from every angle, I marvelled at the intense pleasure it was capable of feeling. I had thought I understood, but the reality was beyond anything I'd imagined.
"And they say Hollywood actresses are vain," said Lane in a mocking voice. "I wonder where they get that outlandish idea?"
"What?" I said, turning to face him.
"No sooner do we finish making love than you leap out of bed to admire yourself in the mirror."
From his tone I'd obviously done something wrong, but I was too inexperienced in these matters to know what.
"Come back to bed, love," he said.
I stared at him incredulously.
"You want sex again already?!"
"What, no!" he said, bursting into laughter. "God, being able to go again so soon would be amazing, but what I want is to cuddle. You always say that cuddling up afterwards is as good as the sex itself and I agree, though I'll deny it vehemently if you ever tell anyone I said so. I have my manly, matinee idol tough guy image to maintain, after all."
So I went over to the bed, stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table, and climbed in next to Lane. And he was right. The cuddling *was* as good. In fact it may even have been better. Lying there in the crook of his left arm, my head on his chest and my breasts pressed against him, while Lane cupped my left buttock in one hand and gently caressed me with his other, I experienced a sense of contentment such as I'd never known before. So this was what intimacy felt like. It was a little overwhelming and I felt myself beginning to tear up.
Lane had to leave for RKO soon after to get there in time for a shoot on the movie he was filming with them. I lay in bed for another hour, fondling myself, smiling a lot about my time with Lane, and just luxuriating in being female at last. For someone who operated so much in the realm of the intellect the last couple of hours had been both overwhelming and a revelation. As wonderful as I now knew sex to be, I also understood that such powerful urges had the potential to distract me from the pursuit of my goals if not managed properly. When I was ruler of the world perhaps it would be prudent of me to keep a stable of hot young studs permanently on hand. They could service my needs whenever the urge was upon me and would not be denied. I smiled, pleased to have come up with the idea. Yes, this was clearly the logical solution to the problem.
When I eventually got up I put on a slip then parked myself at my vanity table, determined to immerse myself in the mysteries of make-up. When I'd achieved a satisfactory result I explored my impressively extensive wardrobe, choosing an elegant red silk dress to wear. I decided I approved of silk; it felt wonderful next to my skin. A very sensual fabric.
Not long after this I was distracted by a commotion in the entrance hall. When I want to investigate I found Jenkins at the front door, barring the way to an angry looking young man.
"What is the trouble?" I asked.
"This fool reporter," said Jenkins. "He insists he had an appointment to see you."
"Perhaps you'll set him straight, Miss Winters," said the reporter.
"I'm not the slightest bit interested in being interviewed, and so good evening!" I replied, haughtily dismissing him.
Jenkins hustled him out and I gave a little sigh. No doubt the real Dolores had made an appointment with the young man, but she was gone and she wasn't ever coming back.
Brain transplants. Marten's surgical skills and understanding of neurobiology were ahead of our time, but then so was the healing gel whose miraculous properties meant that I was up and about within hours of the operation with my new body displaying no signs that it had ever taken place. Marten wondered where the gel had come from. So did I. It had appeared in my lab one night along with a typed note giving instructions as to its use, a note that also included things about myself I had never told another living soul. I had no idea who my anonymous benefactor might be, though I was determined to find out one day. But not today. For now I had more immediate things on my mind.
'DOLORES WINTERS RETIRES FROM SILVER SCREEN', screamed the newspaper headlines, 'Throwing Big Farewell Party on Her Yacht Tonight!'
The announcement come as a shock to everyone, of course, but even given the short notice the cream of Hollywood still turned out for my party. I wasn't an actor so continuing Dolores's career wasn't really a viable option for me. Nor did I need the money it paid since I had lucrative, criminal revenue of my own coming in.
Lane Danby was with me on the deck of my yacht the 'Sea Serpent' to greet our guests as they arrived, an arm around my slender waist. The press photographers were on their best behaviour, dutifully waiting behind the guide ropes either side of the red carpet, snapping every star and celebrity. The extortionist in me calculated that if I ordered the ship to sea I could demand at least five million dollars for the safe return of her passengers, and the studios would pay it. For a moment I was tempted, but only for a moment. I was enjoying myself too much to want to mess it up.
Later, as the party got into full swing behind closed doors, Dolores Winters' best friend took me aside. This was Mary Meyerwitz, wife of famed studio producer Henry Meyerwitz.
"Barbara isn't coming," she said.
"Oh?" I replied, not entirely sure which Barbara she was referring to.
"You can't be surprised, surely? You broke her heart when you left her for Lane Danby."
So Dolores swung both ways, did she? Interesting. This was something I would obviously need to explore. Oh, if the public only knew what went on behind closed doors in Hollywood!
I took a cigarette from my purse and instantly a small forest of male hands appeared holding lighters. I loved the chivalry of the gesture, and all the attention from handsome men that I was already beginning to accept was simply my due as a beautiful woman, but it was Lane I took the light from.
I exhaled, smiling for my admirers, then Lane took my elbow and gently steered me toward the dance floor where the younger couples were jitterbugging to the music of the Cab Calloway band, who I'd hired for the occasion.
"Dance with me," he said.
"I wish I could, darling," I said, "but I somehow managed to strain my foot during our last, ah, exercise session. Walking is fine but dancing would hurt. I blame you, you brute!"
As someone who had spent most of their life in a wheelchair I'd never danced before and had no idea how to. This needed to be rectified as quickly as possible and I'd booked lessons, but I'd yet to have my first one.
Lane's face fell, but he perked up when I placed my hands on his chest, pressing my body against his.
"That only applies to energetic dances like jitterbugging, of course. As for a slow dance where I'm pressed against you like this," I purred, "with your strong arms around me, well..."
I gazed up at him, fluttering my eyelashes and giving him the sweet smile that had won the hearts of millions of moviegoers the world over. He grinned, leaned down to kiss my luscious lips, and all was right with the world.
- 3 -
At the end of 1940, a bunch of costumed mystery men banded together as the Justice Society of America. In December 1941, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, President Franklin Roosevelt ordered the creation of the All-Star Squadron, an umbrella group incorporating the Justice Society and all the other garishly-costumed mystery men who'd emerged in their wake like cockroaches. By early 1942, I had been Dolores Winters for more than two years and I was completely comfortable, confident and happy as her.
In March of that year, circumstances conspired to bring me into conflict with the All-Stars. By then the world was in the grip of a globe-spanning war, one I was following with interest, because when the dust settled I intended to be the one holding all the power. As welcome as my change of gender had been it had in no way affected my dream of world domination. Clearly, I could not achieve this aim through force of arms - I had no armies at my command - so instead I looked to the past, seeking out objects of great power such as the beings who were here before mankind walked the Earth were rumoured to possess. Over the past two years, my researches and explorations had resulted in me locating three such items which, when used together, would enable me to control the thoughts of everyone on the planet. They had also led to me discovering a subterranean remnant of an earlier civilisation, one whose survivors had devolved into simple, voiceless creatures. These subterraneans, or 'sub-men', were small, green-skinned and goblin-like. Conveniently, they imprinted on me as a chick does its mother and would do anything I asked them to. I had found them living beneath an extinct volcano of the Cascade Range in Washington state, the same one that now housed this secret base.
The sub-men weren't the only creatures who did my bidding. I had also empowered human underlings.
"Cyclotron and Deathbolt," I sighed, staring at the two minions my science had granted super-powers to, one based on the power of the atom, the other on electricity. I'd clad each of them in the sort of garish costume that seems to be de rigeur for super-powered individuals on both sides of the law these days - blue and gold for Cyclotron, green and black for Deathbolt.
"You understand the tasks required of you both?"
"I do mine under protest," grumbled Cyclotron.
"Quit yer whinin', Curtis," sneered Deathbolt.
"Indeed," I said, agreeing with Deathbolt for once. "I regret having to resort to blackmail to keep you working for me, but I can live with it."
Terry Curtis was a renowned scientist, a man who had recently succeeded in splitting the atom in his laboratory before any nation had achieved that feat. Deathbolt was a violent thug, one who's made it clear he's attracted to me. But then what man isn't? I may have come to expect and enjoy attention from men, but that doesn't include Deathbolt. And I certainly have no interest in being pawed by someone so uncouth.
"I thought the plan was for Deathbolt and me to commit acts of sabotage on your behalf so they'll pay you a hundred million not to damage the war effort any further," said Cyclotron. "What's so special about this 'hammer', anyway?"
"It's one of three objects of power I require. Through my researches I have ascertained that it was created by an elder race long vanished from the Earth. After learning of it, I helped a criminal metalurgist names Fairy Tales Fenton escape prison in exchange for his agreeing to find the weapon for me. That was a mistake. Its aura of power unhinged Fenton's mind - he thought he actually was the Norse god Thor and went after revenge on the masked mystery man who sent him to prison. I need that 'hammer', and I want you to get it for me."
"Yeah, and she already sent the nig..."
"Deathbolt," I said, cutting him off. "I will not have that sort of offensive language used in my presence."
"Sorry, boss. I still think Amazing Man is a dumb name, though. How 'bout I just call him Everett?"
"If you must," I sighed.
"So he's going after the Helmet of Nabu and my target is this hammer that's in New York," said Cyclotron. "What does that leave for you two?"
"The Powerstone," I said. "For centuries it resided in the forehead of an idol in a hidden cave in Skull Valley. Recently, one of Green Lantern's other enemies retrieved it from that cave. Being an idiot he allowed the Lantern to defeat him. As for the Powerstone, my informants tell me it will shortly be on its way to a government facility in South Dakota known simply as 'the warehouse' where they store all manner of interesting items. Rumour has it they even acquired the Ark of the Covenant recently and now have it tucked away there."
Where Cyclotron could fly to New York under his own power, Deathbolt and I would need Dolores Winters' autogyro to get us to South Dakota. This was parked on the floor of the crater and could lift off vertically. Even with the improvements I had made to the design this wouldn't get us to our destination in much less than ten hours, but I was confident we'd beat our opponents there.
So it was that when Green Lantern and Liberty Belle arrived at the warehouse they found Deathbolt waiting for them, surrounded by several sub-men who'd emerged from underground. The All-Stars had flown under the power of the Lantern's ring and alighted gently in front of Deathbolt, wary of him and the sub-men.
"Who are you?", the woman asked, suspiciously.
"Name's Deathbolt, doll," came the sneering answer, "and I'm here for that bauble your boyfriend is holding."
"The Powerstone?" said the Lantern, raising the gem, which was dangling from a chain held in his right hand. "Since you must know I can't give it to you, what makes you think you can take it from me?"
Deathbolt's smile spread into a wide, unpleasant grin as I silently emerged from the covered hole behind the All-Stars, one we'd dug when we got here. In my hand was an electro-gun, which I fired, momentarily stunning Green Lantern and causing him to drop the Powerstone. As I raced forward to scoop it up, so did Liberty Belle. Deathbolt sent a lightning bolt into the earth at her feet, causing her to jump back, and the stone was mine. Green Lantern quickly recovered and turned his power ring on us, but it was too late.
I looked at my hated foe in his purple eyemask and high-collared cape, his red tunic and green leggings, and laughed. Then I held the Powerstone aloft, its energies keeping the All-Stars at bay. It wasn't enough just to wield such power; I needed to join with it.
The moment I melded with the Powerstone I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. In that instant when the gem fused with my skull, a malevolent presence sprang from it and into my brain, subsuming me totally. Its name was Drakhor, it was a demon, and it had been imprisoned in the Powerstone by its enemies long, long ago. The demon began reading my mind, absorbing my knowledge and my memories at fantastic speed, and I blacked out. I came to again in the middle of an exchange between it and Deathbolt.
"You know it boss-lady" Deathbolt was saying.
"Stop calling me by those feminine epithets!" snarled Drakhor. "You know how I hate being referred to as a woman!"
Wait, what? It was beyond weird to feel words issuing from my mouth that I wasn't saying and to be seeing the world through eyes I wasn't controlling. I was no more than a passenger in my own body. It also appeared that Drakhor strongly identified as male, which could be a problem given the power he now commanded. I tried to reassert dominance then, but the demon pushed me down so hard that I lost consciousness for a few minutes. When it returned, he was giving the All-Stars a warped account of my resurrection while holding them back with energies from the Powerstone.
"...and dead I would have been had I not given my gang earlier instructions for transferring my indomitable brain into another human body. Because of a previously planned kidnapping scheme, that turned out to be Dolores Winters."
Previously planned?
"You can't hold us at bay forever, Ultra," said Green Lantern, visibly straining to use his power ring against the Powerstone.
"I don't intend to," replied Drakhor. "Only 'til I decide what to do with the two of you."
"I got an idea or two on that score," said Deathbolt, smirking as he regarded Liberty Belle.
"Where'd you pick up this lowlife, Ultra?" said Green Lantern. "You used to have a little more class."
"Sticks'n'stones, Greenie," laughed Deathbolt. "Stall all ya want - it won't do you no good. Soon as she gives the word I'm gonna charcoal broil you clowns and serve you to the sub-men. What say, lady, can I...?"
"Never call me that! I'm no woman in my own mind's eye, and I never will be!"
I'd been trying to carefully pick away at Drakhor's control while he was talking, something he suddenly became aware of. This time he slammed me down so hard I was out for hours.
The next time I drifted back to consciousness we were in my underground base. Two of the sub-men were holding a struggling Chuck Grayson, while on a table, hooked up to some sort of machine was a metal figure I recognized as All Star member Robotman.
"I brought you here to repeat an operation you performed months ago," Drakhor was explaining to Grayson, "by placing my brain inside the animated metal form the world calls Robotman!"
Drakhor wanted to discard perfection and have our brain transplanted into that cold metal shell? No, damn it! Now that I had the perfect body I didn't want it to be tossed aside by some demon. But what could I do? I was powerless.
"Whosever you are, you're out of your mind!" said Grayson. "It was just a fluke Bob's brain didn't die when I put it in the robot!"
Had Marten not been available, Grayson was the other man I'd have approached to perform my brain transplant. Of course, where money had been enough for Marten acquiring Grayson's services would probably have required some, ah, persuasion.
"And even if I could do it again," he continued, "that would mean his brain would have to perish!"
"Small loss to my way of thinkin'," said Deathbolt. "I still say, boss, if I had a chasis like yours, one that useta belong to a movie star, last thing I'd want to do is junk it."
"I'll explain it to you one final time, Deathbolt," said Drakhor, making our voice as low and menacing as it could get. "I'd suggest you listen if you know what's good for you."
Deathbolt gulped when Drakhor took hold of his chin, and I saw fear in his eyes. From the light playing across his features it was clear the Powerstone had begun to glow in response to Drakhor's anger.
"It was an accident that my brain had to be transplanted into Dolores Winters' body, a most regrettable accident. My thoughts, my desires, are still those of the middle-aged scientist I feel myself to be, and I live in torment until my brain is housed in that robot shell over there. Now I trust I've made myself clear - once and for all?"
"L..like a bell, lady... I mean Ultra!"
Deathbolt was shaken by Drakhor's vehemence. So was I. I was also worried by the demon describing himself as a "middle-aged scientist". I'd realized he was continuing with my extortion scheme as cover for seeking the items of power I'd sought, and for the same reason - he intended to rule the world - but it seemed he intended to adopt my whole identity. What I didn't understand was this intention to place our brain in a metal body. If he hated being female as much as he claimed, then why not acquire a male body instead?
And it was while contemplating these matters that I once again drifted into unconsciousness. To my horror, the next time it returned I was lying on an operating table with the immobile form of Robotman on another next to mine. There were several people in surgical garb working at various tasks around the tables, preparing for the forthcoming operation, while Deathbolt and Cyclotron were keeping an eye on a couple of captured All-Stars. To my surprise Amazing Man was trussed up too, his unconscious form suspended from above by his arms. Which could only mean that not only had he not secured the Helmet of Nabu from Dr Fate, but that he had turned against us.
"All right, Ultra, I'm ready," said Bob Grayson, putting on his surgical mask.
"It's about time, Dr Grayson," said Drakhor. "I was beginning to think I was going to have to 'persuade' you again."
"And I was hopin' we were, boss," said Deathbolt. "Y'know, it's gonna be hard, relatin' to you as a tin soldier..."
"I'll tolerate no whining during my supreme moment," snapped Drakhor. "Begin the operation, Grayson - and remember. The Powerstone must be embedded in my new robot skull, just as it has been in Dolores Winters'."
"Remember? I only wish I could forget."
That's when I finally realized why Drakhor wanted a metal body. Iron. The alloy Robotman's body shell was moulded from contained a lot of iron and I knew from my researches that iron was proof against all manner of magicks. The demon wanted an iron-rich shell for protection. But though Dr Robert Crane, the man whose brain currently resided in that shell, was male the body itself wasn't. Mechanical devices don't have a gender, and that external shell could just as easily have been moulded in the shape of a woman. Drakhor would know this, which meant his protests about wanting a male body were an act, a show being put on for one person: me.
When Drakhor invaded my brain and gained access to all my memories he would have realized this was a good way to keep me off balance. He must have known he couldn't keep me fully suppressed, that my consciousness would continue to bob back to the surface as it has been doing, so he was obviously worried about what I might do during those periods, but why? I had no control over my body so I couldn't affect anything.
Or could I?
The Powerstone was now plugged directly into my brain, so if I was conscious I should be able use it too. Hmmm.
Grayson turned to Robotman.
"Bob, old friend, I..."
"Just make it quick and painless, okay, Chuck," came the reply in that cold, metallic voice.
"Yeah, sure. And may God have mercy upon my soul."
As Grayson lifted his scalpel so there was a terrible rending sound and the whole roof of the operating theatre was ripped off. Pandemonium followed as All-Star Squadron members poured in through the roof while my minions rushed to engage them. Drakhor too leapt from the operating table and joined the fray. The battle continued for several minutes until, eventually, Drakhor found himself alone on the hospital roof, facing a formidable array of masked heroes.
"Fools!" he snarled. "I'll turn my hammer and my Powerstone loose on all of you, and..."
"Oh come off it Ultra," said Robotman. "Don't you know when you're outnumbered?"
"Stand aside, All-Stars, Ultra is mine!" shouted a new voice, and Cyclotron burst through them, heading for us.
"Curtis!? You don't dare!" shouted Drakhor.
But Curtis did dare. He flew across the roof, closing the distance in less than a second, grabbing us and flying up into the sky, Drakhor screaming imprecations at him all the while. It was immediately obvious to me what he intended, that he was letting his atomic power build to critical...
...and seconds later he exploded.
- 4 -
"Apparently there's a small island somewhere in the Pacific, one not on any charts, where dinosaurs still rule," I said as I dressed. "This was something I didn't know until May 1942 when my colleague Deathbolt smuggled my disembodied brain into a secret laboratory on Bedloe's Island, beneath the Statue of Liberty. He paid Per Degaton, a technician working there, to let us in. The government calls it Project M. All manner of anomalies are being kept there, including a Tyrannosaurus Rex from that Pacific island.
I'd realized my brain was absorbing mystic energy from the Powerstone, energy I'd be able to use if the opportunity presented itself. So when Drakhor moved his consciousness back into the Powerstone in order to survive the imminent explosion and it fell away from us, I willed my brain to teleport out of my body and into a receptacle in my distant base, one of those I'd designed to house and maintain a living brain. This left my body and Terry Curtis to perish in a small atomic explosion in the skies above New York, one I'm told Green Lantern contained and funnelled into outer space. As for Drakhor, if my calculations are correct as to where the Powerstone fell, it's now lying in the mud deep under the waters of Jamaica Bay. If so, it will soon be silted over and may never be found again, and good riddance to it.
At Project M, Deathbolt got into a fight with some teenage members of the All-Star Squadron, I was forced by events to move my consciousness into the body of the T-Rex, and a pointless conflict ensued until I moved my consciousness out of the beast and teleported my brain away. Only instead of ending up where I expected to, I ended up here, wherever here is."
"Are you unhappy with the results?" asked my unseen companion, his voice unnaturally deep.
"Not unhappy at all," I said, carefully examining my make-up in the mirror I'd been applying it in front of while I talked. "Given how I was there when it was destroyed, I certainly never expected to find myself in Dolores Winters' gorgeous body again. How is that even possible?"
"I took cell samples from her body one night while you slept and grew a clone from them. Then I surgically transplanted your brain into that cloned body."
"Transplanted?" I said, frowning. "But the Powerstone gave me the ability to move my mind into a body telepathically."
"Not anymore, I'm afraid. You may regain that ability someday but the power boost from the stone was short-lived and has now been used up."
Though far from tired of admiring my reflection, I turned from the mirror and stared at the featureless white walls of the room I was in. There was the army cot I had woken on, the mannequin that had been clad in the clothes I was now wearing when I woke, and the small table containing cosmetics, a jug of water, and a glass. What the room didn't have was a door.
"It was you who put the healing gel in my lab wasn't it?"
"Yes," said the voice.
"But why? And how do you know so much about me?"
"All in good time. Speaking of which, I need to return you to your own era."
"My own...? Then you're a time trav..."
With that, I slumped unconscious.
When I awoke I was sprawled on the brocade surface of a richly upholstered divan, one that was located on a landing that I recognized.
"Dolores!" said a woman's voice, and Mary Meyerwitz appeared at the top of the staircase. "I didn't see you being admitted. Henry and I thought you weren't going to be able to make it to our party!"
Oh my mysterious benefactor was good! He was very good indeed!
"Hello, Mary," I said, standing up and giving her a quick hug, our painted lips lightly brushing each other's powdered cheeks.
She took my opera-gloved hand and led me downstairs to where a throng of very famous, very glamorous people were busy socializing.
"Look, everyone!" she announced, happily. "Dolores is here!"
To my surprise they actually broke into applause as we descended the last few stairs. Accepting a cigarette from Alan Ladd and a light from Paul Henreid, I was soon chatting away gaily with my Hollywood peers, all the while laughing inside. The reason I originally hadn't been able to attend this party was that at that very moment I was three thousand miles away at a hospital in Queens, New York, battling the All-Star Squadron alongside Cyclotron and Deathbolt. My oh so mysterious benefactor had returned me here, two months in my past, giving me the perfect alibi. If I was partying with a crowd of famous people who would attest to my presence there, then clearly that other woman claiming to be me had to be an imposter. No one could be in two places at the same time, after all, as I myself had once believed. I'd turned my intellect to the possibility of time travel at one point, of course, considered all the various paradoxes and other dangers it would bring, but my experiences with the actual thing had so far been entirely positive.
My initial gambit having been thwarted, I needed a new means of subjugating the planet to my will. In the meantime, I followed the unfolding of World War Two with great interest. There was much to learn from Germany's early victories and later defeats, as there was from surprise attacks like that of the Japanese on Pearl Harbor. I admired the military audacity of the Nazis, but thought their philosophy deranged. Since mine is a superior intellect I agree with the idea that the superior should rule over everyone else, of course, but all that 'master race' nonsense was moronic, as is the whole concept of racial 'science'. Your race has nothing to do with how intellectually superior you are to the rest of the herd.
During those years, while exploring hedonism as a lifestyle and taking sexual partners of both genders, I continued to secretly run my criminal empire, amassing the funds I would one day need if I wanted to successfully achieve world domination.
Then, in 1948, Death came for me.
- 5 -
An inoperable brain tumour. Of all the things I could have been afflicted with that was probably the most ironic. What good my brain's ability to withstand and quickly recover from transplantation when that organ itself was now diseased? Yet as I lay on what everyone expected to be my deathbed in New York's Mt. Sinai hospital I could not believe that this was the end. I had been Dolores Winters for nine years, and it wasn't enough. Then, one night, *they* appeared at the foot of the bed in my private room. Not surprisingly, the one of the pair who immediately captured my attention was the magenta-skinned alien with the third eye in the middle of his forehead and a webbed fin that fanned over his head from just behind one ear to just behind the other. Yet it was his companion, a man clad in a black, pseudo-fascist uniform who made me gasp.
"Per Degaton!"
"Ah, so you remember me," he grinned. "I've come a long way since I was a lab technician on Project M and you were a rampaging Tyrannosaurus."
Had he come to gloat?
"What do you want?" I sighed, not having the energy or the inclination to banter. "I left word that I didn't want visitors."
"That cancer you have, Dolores Winters - you're going to die tomorrow."
"That's not true. The doctors..."
"Have miscalculated. Just as you have. You die tomorrow at 1.57 am. It'll be a massive brain haemorrage brought on by the tumour. That is... unless you take a little trip with us."
And so I did... a trip across a thousand years to the Metropolis of the thirtieth century in order to utilize the technology of that era.
"How's it feel?" asked Degaton after the procedure.
"Heavy," I replied. "My balance is off."
"You'll adjust."
"I still don't understand why we had to come a thousand years to..."
"This was the height of his power," said Despero, the alien. "His future. Plus the technology..."
"Doesn't look so high tech to me."
"The key was the timing," explained Degaton. "With the Legion there, with travel to that era so unstable - strength had to come from the past."
"And the future."
"Well said. There are only a few moments where time is in such flux - and let's be honest, brothers. Timing is everything."
I stared down at the body on the table, the top of its skull missing and the brainpan empty. It wasn't the first body I'd lived in as Dolores Winters, and I vowed there and then it would not be the last.
I sighed and flexed a powerful white-furred arm, the arm of a large, white gorilla, but not just any gorilla. No, this one was from Gorilla City, the hidden African city where highly advanced gorillas, an evolutionary offshoot, have created a city with technology far in advance of contemporary humans. Super-strong white gorillas were born to them maybe once every thousand years, hence Despero referring to this period being "the height of his power".
And now we had stolen that power.
Degaton was forming a group he called the 'Time Stealers' and had already recruited Despero. While they obviously wanted me for my intellect the group also needed muscle in its ranks, hence their offer to me: allow my brain to be placed in this body and they would save me. I had no other option, so I agreed. This wasn't something I'd have chosen but I figured I could endure it for a few years. I'd help them with their schemes, all the while learning all I could about their technology and planning how best to turn it to my ends. Yet it was difficult being that big hairy ape, so very different from the woman I wanted to be. Beauty had become the beast, and she was not at all happy about it. Those were hard years, and I often found myself cursing that tumour and wondering darkly if it had been caused deliberately. If it had, and if I ever discovered who was responsible, that person would learn first-hand just how ferocious an enraged white gorilla could be.