The car bounced over the rutted road, which had been carefully prepared
to give it the appearance of one that was seldom-travelled and had never been
of any great importance.
The driver of the car was rather similar to the road. She also went
out of her way to conceal herself beneath a very ordinary exterior. No-one,
sizing up the small, stocky woman with blotchy skin and her haircut as cheap as
it was short, would have given her a second glance. She was neither attractive
nor interesting nor alarming nor offensive. She drove up to what appeared
to be a very ordinary gate, held shut by a chain and padlock, and with a sign
on it warning any passersby that Broome Air Force Base was closed, but remained
Federal property, and warning of dire consequences for any trespassers. She
reached inside her jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a Middletown,
Pennsylvania, Police badge in a leather wallet. She pressed on the eagle’s
left wing and the gate swung open from what had appeared to be the hinge side,
leaving the locked chain undisturbed.
As the gate closed behind her, the driver began to change, her blotchy
dun-colored skin becoming a smooth poreless robin’s-egg blue, her hair becoming
glossy black with a dramatic white streak, her plump and squatty form becoming
tall and smoothly muscled, her drab brown suit becoming a form-fitting red
bodysuit with cobalt blue gloves, boots and trunks.
It would take a fellow Martian to really understand the powers of J’Onn
J’Onzz, let alone her mind. But at the headquarters of the Justice Association
of America, she did at least have a few friends who understood her at least a
little. The League’s formation had been a life-saver for the lonely exile.
The Martian Manhunter drove into a seemingly decrepit building and
parked her little blue Volkswagen next to a very elegant-looking Polish sports
car. There were no other cars in sight, but that was no indication of how many
would be at the meeting. Some members typically arrived under their own power,
after all, and some had vehicles that were too big to park in this building.
She went to an unmarked wooden door along the building’s east wall and fingered
her badge, which had morphed into an octagonal belt buckle. The door opened
outward soundlessly, revealing a set of elevator doors which after a moment
slid open to reveal an immaculate elevator car.
The elevator delivered her with quiet efficiency to an atrium that was
sufficiently large and well-lit that visitors did not feel oppressed by being
in a windowless space some four storeys underground. The Manhunter looked
around at the various members of the Justice Association who were already
present. She did not smile because it was not a Martian practice, but she
nodded pleasantly at those who smiled at her. Most did.
The Manhunter walked across the atrium, exchanging greetings with one
person or another. She hadn’t seen any of her particular friends, such as
Batwoman or the Atom, but she did spot Hawkman talking with three strangers who
appeared to have metallic skins. She joined the group, who seemed to be
discussing metallurgy or perhaps alchemy.
“When the statue is fully refurbished, the skin will be completely
replaced. Instead of ordinary copper, it will be sheathed in stainless
manganese bronze, and will never turn that ugly corroded green color again.”
“Nice,” the gray-colored woman said. “But will the torch still have
that red white and blue aviation beacon? I know it isn’t needed anymore,
thanks to radar, but-” She broke off and nodded towards the Manhunter.
Hawkman finally noticed the Martian. He greeted her and started to
make introductions, but the chirpy copper-colored one broke in with a loud
“Hi! I’m Penny, and these are Buffy and Buck!”
The pale silver gentleman smiled indulgently.
“What my obstreperous sister means is, we are Silver, Nickel and, er,
Copper.”
The Manhunter nodded. “I get it, you’re some of Wanda Magnus’s
kobolds. I understand Copper Penny and Silver Buck, but how does Nickel yield
Buffy?”
“Hold out your hand,” the nickel woman said, with a warmer smile than
her “brother”. The Manhunter complied, and in a moment a small coin fell into
her palm. It was one of the new five-cent pieces, replacing the familiar
portrait of President Thomas Jefferson (1801-1809) with that of President
Joseph Black Diamond (1909-1917). It had the current date, 1966, but instead
of “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA”, it was identified as a product of “MAGNUS
LABORATORIES”. She turned it over and finally remembered that the Mint had
also replaced the old three-honeybees design with a shaggy American bison –
popularly though inaccurately known as a “buffalo”. Beneath the animal,
instead of “FIVE CENTS”, it read, “PURE NICKEL”.
“Buffalo Nickel,” the Manhunter said, delighted, and held the coin out
to the metal creature.
“Keep it if you want,” Nickel said, “I’ve got plenty.”
She patted her rounded hip, her hand clanking against her flank.
J’Onzz felt a surprising wave of nausea but suppressed it and dropped
the coin into one of her suit’s many pockets.
J’Onzz was about to call out a greeting to Aquawoman when she heard a
commotion behind her, near the elevators. A lushly-upholstered blonde woman
dressed in diaphanous green draperies that were not well-suited to the weather
or to public occasions was standing among a knot of JAA members who were
variously puzzled, concerned and annoyed by the intruder. The woman held a
large white signboard on which she had clumsily written in grease-pencil, GUYS
YOU GOT TO HELP ME.
“Young lady,” Mister Terrific began sternly, but the Star-Spangled Kid
touched his arm and leaned past him to look into the woman’s face.
“Jonni?”
The woman nodded, beginning to weep silently.
Johanna Tetzlaff had been a moderately successful professional wrestler
under the name Jonni Detroit when she saved a child from a kidnapping attempt
and was invited to a testimonial dinner for “lifesaving heroes” which included
police, military veterans and assorted ordinary citizens like herself. She was
seated next to the Buddhist evangelist and alleged mystic Peter Cannon, also
known as the Thunderbolt, when he suffered a massive myocardial infarction and
died in the middle of receiving the pepper from Jonni. Their eyes met just as
he died, and for some minutes after he slumped to the table, she didn’t realize
he was dead, since she could hear his voice in her head. Later than night,
Cannon’s spirit for the first time manifested itself in the form of a “living
thunderbolt” that resembled a humanoid shape formed from sizzling blue
electricity.
Before long, Jonni had worked out a testy but functional relationship
with the Thunderbolt, and had begun a semi-professional career as what she
called a “sort-of superhero” under the name Jonni Thunder. After much
negotiation, the Thunderbolt agreed to use his powers to carry out any spoken
command she might give, although he tended to be lazy and would sometimes use
rather creative interpretations of her words to avoid extra work.
Jonni and her Thunderbolt had crashed the first JAA meeting and after
that she had become a kind of mascot, not exactly a member and never quite
taken seriously in spite of the Thunderbolt’s power, but always welcome.
Now, Jonni was in the midst of the assembled JAA, all of whom were more
or less distracted by her transformation from a short, muscular woman whose
face had always been more good-natured than handsome into a stereotypical
pneumatic pinup girl. That her usual slacks and plaid jacket had been replaced
with gauzy garments suited for displaying her new curves didn’t help them in
paying attention to the words she scrawled with increasing speed and sloppiness
on her whiteboard.
Pushing a curling lock of her newly-lengthened blonde hair out of her
eyes, Jonni explained that on a whim, she had asked the Thunderbolt to show her
what she might have been like if she’d been born a boy. The Thunderbolt had
conjured up a male “Johnny” Thunder, summoning him from a parallel world rather
than actually creating a person by magic, which would have taken more energy.
Alas, Jonni’s counterpart turned out to be enough like her to share the
potential for developing a link with the Thunderbolt, and enough unlike her to
be a rather ruthless sort of criminal. He had seized control of the
Thunderbolt, forcing him to agree to the same rules that had governed his
relationship with Jonni, and had neutralized Jonni by the simple expedient of
ordering the Thunderbolt to remove her voice. While he was engaged in
modifying Jonni, he’d also ordered the other modifications the JAA had noticed.
Jonni had finally escaped from her counterpart’s lair in the middle of the
previous night, and had made her way to JAA headquarters. The tale she told
them, first through her whiteboard and later through a teletype, was troubling:
the male Johnny had already had the Thunderbolt abduct the most powerful
members of the Justice Association and turned five members of his gang into
their male counterparts. Now, each of the heroines was being held prisoner by
her counterpart at various locations around the continent, for some purposed
which was unclear to Jonni but surely was not going to be good for them, or for
the rest of humanity.
“Sounds like a classic Type 2 case,” Wonder Warrior said with a confidence that
sounded all too obviously forced. “Split up into pairs and each group confront
one bad guy.”
“I doubt if pairs will do it,” Aquawoman observed grimly. “Not if we’re doing
this without Superwoman, or Green Lantern, or the Flash.”
“And not if we’re going up against bad guys who are the equivalents of all of
those, plus Batwoman and the Atom,” noted Captain America.
“And the Thunderbolt,” added Lamplighter.
“Yes, and the Thunderbolt,” Hawkman agreed.
“Well, then, let’s make it Plan 2B,” Wonder Warrior persisted. “B for Badguy.”
The barbarically-clad muscleman smacked his fist into his palm, warming to his
subject. “Each of our missing comrades has enemies who have power to rival
their own. Some of them are in prison, or we have some other sort of leverage
on them so we can get them to co-operate. Sometimes an enemy who understands
you is better than a friend.”
Some rolled their eyes at yet another of Wonder Warrior’s Myrmidon aphorisms,
but Hawkman nodded thoughtfully.
“It’s as good a plan as any, and clearly we do need to work fast. All right,
let’s get a couple of our lawyers on the phone to Federal and military prisons,
and get some Blackhawk planes on their way to the prisons right away. No sense
in waiting until we hear back first.”
Batgirl looked up from a teletype which was still spitting out a long scroll of
yellow paper.
“There’s Blockbuster and Poison Oak at Blackgate Prison, Luthor and Mother
Terra at Fort Superwoman . . . . Do we want to look at Arkham Asylum?”
“Only if we don’t have any choice,” Hawkman answered. “But out west there’s
Hector Hammond at the UCCC Medical School Hospital, he would probably be
usable.”
“I was going to check the West separately, start with the places closer to
here.”
“Carry on. Okay, people, do we have any volunteers for the teams?”
Hands went up, and voices called out.
“Remember, people, these are supposed to be the counterparts, the equivalent,
of our most powerful members. Don’t volunteer for a mission just because
someone is your friend, and don’t go asking to join in after a team has been
formed. We all know what happens when too many go on one mission, especially
when there’s a lot of firepower involved. Now, I’ll be going after the Atom
myself –“
There came a catcall from the back at this revelation. Hawkman and the Atom
had been the closest friends among the founding members of the Association, and
nobody was surprised that he was ignoring his own admonishment against wanting
to help a personal friend.
“—and I’ll be recruiting Yellowjacket. It’s okay, Batgirl, I know where he
is. Who else wants in on this one?”
In short order the teams were formed, a few volunteers were turned away or
persuaded to go on another mission, and the others were busying themselves with
arranging transportation for the chosen teams, making sure that medical
supplies and other vital equipment would be available, or else checking to see
what else besides the rescue missions needed doing. It was something often not
understood by the general public that the biggest difference between the
Justice Association and a more conventional police or military organization lay
in the speed with which it could act – at least when it had someone in charge
who could get the group’s members to co-operate.
[To be continued]
Friday, December 31, 2010
Earth-349: The Last Story, Prologue 3
Natalie Richards looked up from her desk when she heard a knock
at the door. She stretched out an arm and opened it, and since
Richards was still widely known to the world as Doctor Fantastic, a
former member of the now-disbanded Fantastic Four, when she
stretched out an arm it really stretched. The door, some ten yards
away, opened, and Jane Arbogast entered. She'd already removed
and stowed her Iron Maiden armor, and like Richards was wearing
an AIM coverall, its beekeeper-style cowl thrown back.
Richards had spent her entire life surrounded by scientists and
intellectuals, and she knew that social awkwardness was something
of an occupational hazard, but until her previous visit, Iron Maiden
had always kept her armor on the entire time, even the helmet. That
had seemed a bit much, even to Richards.
Arbogast had been terribly nervous on her previous visit, but she
seemed a good deal more relaxed this time.
Richards finished what she was working on and rose from the desk
just as Arbogast got to within normal conversational distance. She
rose and extended a hand, and was glad to see that this time Arbogast
took it without hesitation.
"Good to see you again, Richards. Is Palmer here?"
"Not yet, and I was expecting her half an hour ago. Oh, well, you know
how she is: she can arrive via telephone at any moment, so naturally
she's always being delayed at the last minute."
"So, let's see your Museum of Many Worlds, shall we?"
Richards smiled. She admired Iron Maiden's direct, down-to-business
approach, presumably honed by running the day-to-day operations of the
worldwide company owned by her reclusive boss, Tony Stark.
Richards led Arbogast down a corridor to a large double door. It was after
six on a Sunday night, so there were few staff members around. Richards
punched a six-digit code into the latch and opened it. Lights came on
automatically all through the cavernous space.
"This was a dining room for the staff until we built a smaller and more
pleasant one, but it's just about perfect for a museum."
Much of the space was still empty, but Arbogast could see that the
museum's collection was already impressive, and included entire airplanes
and automobiles, as well as display cases containing everything from
furniture and clothed mannequins to coins, stamps and newspapers.
The smaller cases had many drawers each, containing yet more artifacts
from parallel worlds.
Richards went up to one case which displayed an assortment of
newspapers and magazines that displayed unfamiliar celebrities,
unfamiliar fashions, unfamiliar sports and even unfamiliar plants and
animals. She opened one of its drawers and lifted out a newspaper, a copy
of the Pittsburgh Courier about a year old. The biggest headline read,
"PRESIDENT ROBESON MEETS WITH EMPEROR SELASSIE".
Smaller ones indicated that the Indianapolis Clowns had defeated the
Newark Eagles in the third game of the World Series, that Harry
Belafonte had received his sixth Academy Award for Best Director,
and that Surgeon General "Torchy" Brown had begun a new national
campaign to wipe out syphilis.
"This is from Earth-319," Richards said, smiling. "The funny thing is,
you could read the entire paper without guessing what the biggest surprise
would be if you were to visit there."
Arbogast took the paper and carefully opened it.
"Something more interesting than the fact that the President's first name is
Paul rather than Kenneth, I take it."
Richards laughed.
at the door. She stretched out an arm and opened it, and since
Richards was still widely known to the world as Doctor Fantastic, a
former member of the now-disbanded Fantastic Four, when she
stretched out an arm it really stretched. The door, some ten yards
away, opened, and Jane Arbogast entered. She'd already removed
and stowed her Iron Maiden armor, and like Richards was wearing
an AIM coverall, its beekeeper-style cowl thrown back.
Richards had spent her entire life surrounded by scientists and
intellectuals, and she knew that social awkwardness was something
of an occupational hazard, but until her previous visit, Iron Maiden
had always kept her armor on the entire time, even the helmet. That
had seemed a bit much, even to Richards.
Arbogast had been terribly nervous on her previous visit, but she
seemed a good deal more relaxed this time.
Richards finished what she was working on and rose from the desk
just as Arbogast got to within normal conversational distance. She
rose and extended a hand, and was glad to see that this time Arbogast
took it without hesitation.
"Good to see you again, Richards. Is Palmer here?"
"Not yet, and I was expecting her half an hour ago. Oh, well, you know
how she is: she can arrive via telephone at any moment, so naturally
she's always being delayed at the last minute."
"So, let's see your Museum of Many Worlds, shall we?"
Richards smiled. She admired Iron Maiden's direct, down-to-business
approach, presumably honed by running the day-to-day operations of the
worldwide company owned by her reclusive boss, Tony Stark.
Richards led Arbogast down a corridor to a large double door. It was after
six on a Sunday night, so there were few staff members around. Richards
punched a six-digit code into the latch and opened it. Lights came on
automatically all through the cavernous space.
"This was a dining room for the staff until we built a smaller and more
pleasant one, but it's just about perfect for a museum."
Much of the space was still empty, but Arbogast could see that the
museum's collection was already impressive, and included entire airplanes
and automobiles, as well as display cases containing everything from
furniture and clothed mannequins to coins, stamps and newspapers.
The smaller cases had many drawers each, containing yet more artifacts
from parallel worlds.
Richards went up to one case which displayed an assortment of
newspapers and magazines that displayed unfamiliar celebrities,
unfamiliar fashions, unfamiliar sports and even unfamiliar plants and
animals. She opened one of its drawers and lifted out a newspaper, a copy
of the Pittsburgh Courier about a year old. The biggest headline read,
"PRESIDENT ROBESON MEETS WITH EMPEROR SELASSIE".
Smaller ones indicated that the Indianapolis Clowns had defeated the
Newark Eagles in the third game of the World Series, that Harry
Belafonte had received his sixth Academy Award for Best Director,
and that Surgeon General "Torchy" Brown had begun a new national
campaign to wipe out syphilis.
"This is from Earth-319," Richards said, smiling. "The funny thing is,
you could read the entire paper without guessing what the biggest surprise
would be if you were to visit there."
Arbogast took the paper and carefully opened it.
"Something more interesting than the fact that the President's first name is
Paul rather than Kenneth, I take it."
Richards laughed.
Earth-349: The Last Story, Prologue 2
Earth-349: The Martian Manhunter
by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D.
Disclaimer #1 This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within
the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but not
limited by that story or any other.
Disclaimer #2 Some characters appearing in this story are based on
copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and
others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those
copyrights.
Disclaimer #3 This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the
easily offended, especially those who are uncomfortable with such topics
as transgender, undocumented immigration and linotypism.
The police had Etaoin Shrdlu in custody, with eight finger cuffs
added to the handcuffs to ensure he didn't get a chance to work his
powers on any typewriter or telephone dial he might pass. The
typesetting machine Shrdlu had stolen (a priceless artifact, the
one Mark Twain had bankrupted himself trying to perfect) was
undamaged, in the custody of a curator from the Hub City Museum of
Science and Industry. The police already had the usual anonymous
statements from the Flash and from herself. She could spare a few
minutes.
The Martian Manhunter laid a blue-gloved hand on the Flash's shoulder.
"If you need me, I'll be up on the roof."
"Something you need to do?" the Scarlet Speedster asked, mildly
curious.
"Just going to look at the sky. Join me if you want."
After a minute, she did.
The sun was just below the horizon, the sky clear, dimming slowly.
Two stars were just visible, low in the west.
"Which one's Mars?" the Flash asked.
The Manhunter turned, her face betraying surprise.
"Mars is somewhere to the east, not visible yet to human eyes.
Those are Venus and Mercury."
"Oh. I just assumed --"
"Seeing Mars as a tiny orange dot just makes me feel more homesick,
Rose. But a double evening star makes me feel right at home."
"Oh, right. You can see this from Mars, can't you?"
"It's quite common. Of course, on Mars it's more likely to be
Earth and Venus. But this is nice."
The sky was darker now. Five or six stars were visible directly
overhead. The Manhunter pointed upward.
"Leaping J'emm, the one you call Orion, is also familiar.
Something to remind me that I'm not too far from home. A long way,
but a measurable distance."
The Flash placed a hand on the shoulder of the Manhunter's red
bodysuit.
"You'll get home, Joanie. It'll happen."
The Flash left moments later for another of her endless patrols of the city.
The Manhunter considered her options. The Middletown police were expecting
Detective Joan Jones to be on duty in about twelve hours. She could fly, which
would get her home at about three in the morning, exhausted (she was no
Superwoman). She could catch a commercial flight to Philadelphia and take a
cab from the airport, but that was a lot of money on a police officer's salary.
She finally decided to try her luck at Corkin AFB. Flying under her own power
to just outside the gates of the base, she landed behind a defunct gas station
and began to change.
At her mental command, her red bodysuit began to crease ad seam itself into the
blue uniform of a Captain in the U.S. Air Force. The technology that allowed
her to alter her suit had been derived from her race's innate ability to alter
their bodies. She'd tried to explain it once to Natalie Richards of the
Fantastic Four, but the concepts had been so alien to Terran science that she
hadn't made much progress.
The suit changed faster than the Manhunter's body, but she soon caught up. Her
robin's-egg blue skin changed to a peachy pink. Her close-cropped black hair
turned blonde, and grew out enough to need to be pinned up. Pins emerged from
her skin and migrated into place. Her tall and heroically muscular body shrank
to a more modest stature, with bigger breasts and hips. She'd tried to explain
principles of Martian biology to Dr. Nelson Fate once, but he also hadn't
understood much.
It would take a fellow Martian to really understand J'Onn J'Onzz.
She walked up to the guard post at the gate and produced the ID of Cpt. Jane
Jahns. The Captain was listed with the base's Intelligence office as on
detached service, mission usually classified, liable to show up at any time and
to be shown every courtesy. She had to persuade the base commander that she
didn't need a fighter jet and pilot commandeered for her, that a space on the
MATS flight to Olmstead at 2100 hours would be fine.
The alterations that reality underwent that night were minimal in most parts of
the country, including Middletown. None of the Manhunter's special martian
senses noticed anything. The disruption was more severe in New Devonshire, New
Troy, Califia and Wabash, and most especially bad in central Ohio, inand around
Hub City. There is no way of saying what effect the event might have had on
J'Onzz's Martian body and mind if she had still been in Hub City when it
happened.
by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D.
Disclaimer #1 This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within
the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but not
limited by that story or any other.
Disclaimer #2 Some characters appearing in this story are based on
copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and
others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those
copyrights.
Disclaimer #3 This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the
easily offended, especially those who are uncomfortable with such topics
as transgender, undocumented immigration and linotypism.
The police had Etaoin Shrdlu in custody, with eight finger cuffs
added to the handcuffs to ensure he didn't get a chance to work his
powers on any typewriter or telephone dial he might pass. The
typesetting machine Shrdlu had stolen (a priceless artifact, the
one Mark Twain had bankrupted himself trying to perfect) was
undamaged, in the custody of a curator from the Hub City Museum of
Science and Industry. The police already had the usual anonymous
statements from the Flash and from herself. She could spare a few
minutes.
The Martian Manhunter laid a blue-gloved hand on the Flash's shoulder.
"If you need me, I'll be up on the roof."
"Something you need to do?" the Scarlet Speedster asked, mildly
curious.
"Just going to look at the sky. Join me if you want."
After a minute, she did.
The sun was just below the horizon, the sky clear, dimming slowly.
Two stars were just visible, low in the west.
"Which one's Mars?" the Flash asked.
The Manhunter turned, her face betraying surprise.
"Mars is somewhere to the east, not visible yet to human eyes.
Those are Venus and Mercury."
"Oh. I just assumed --"
"Seeing Mars as a tiny orange dot just makes me feel more homesick,
Rose. But a double evening star makes me feel right at home."
"Oh, right. You can see this from Mars, can't you?"
"It's quite common. Of course, on Mars it's more likely to be
Earth and Venus. But this is nice."
The sky was darker now. Five or six stars were visible directly
overhead. The Manhunter pointed upward.
"Leaping J'emm, the one you call Orion, is also familiar.
Something to remind me that I'm not too far from home. A long way,
but a measurable distance."
The Flash placed a hand on the shoulder of the Manhunter's red
bodysuit.
"You'll get home, Joanie. It'll happen."
The Flash left moments later for another of her endless patrols of the city.
The Manhunter considered her options. The Middletown police were expecting
Detective Joan Jones to be on duty in about twelve hours. She could fly, which
would get her home at about three in the morning, exhausted (she was no
Superwoman). She could catch a commercial flight to Philadelphia and take a
cab from the airport, but that was a lot of money on a police officer's salary.
She finally decided to try her luck at Corkin AFB. Flying under her own power
to just outside the gates of the base, she landed behind a defunct gas station
and began to change.
At her mental command, her red bodysuit began to crease ad seam itself into the
blue uniform of a Captain in the U.S. Air Force. The technology that allowed
her to alter her suit had been derived from her race's innate ability to alter
their bodies. She'd tried to explain it once to Natalie Richards of the
Fantastic Four, but the concepts had been so alien to Terran science that she
hadn't made much progress.
The suit changed faster than the Manhunter's body, but she soon caught up. Her
robin's-egg blue skin changed to a peachy pink. Her close-cropped black hair
turned blonde, and grew out enough to need to be pinned up. Pins emerged from
her skin and migrated into place. Her tall and heroically muscular body shrank
to a more modest stature, with bigger breasts and hips. She'd tried to explain
principles of Martian biology to Dr. Nelson Fate once, but he also hadn't
understood much.
It would take a fellow Martian to really understand J'Onn J'Onzz.
She walked up to the guard post at the gate and produced the ID of Cpt. Jane
Jahns. The Captain was listed with the base's Intelligence office as on
detached service, mission usually classified, liable to show up at any time and
to be shown every courtesy. She had to persuade the base commander that she
didn't need a fighter jet and pilot commandeered for her, that a space on the
MATS flight to Olmstead at 2100 hours would be fine.
The alterations that reality underwent that night were minimal in most parts of
the country, including Middletown. None of the Manhunter's special martian
senses noticed anything. The disruption was more severe in New Devonshire, New
Troy, Califia and Wabash, and most especially bad in central Ohio, inand around
Hub City. There is no way of saying what effect the event might have had on
J'Onzz's Martian body and mind if she had still been in Hub City when it
happened.
Earth-349: The Last Story, Prologue 1
Earth-349: The House of Mystery
Prologue to the Last Earth-349 Story
by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D.
Disclaimer #1 This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within
the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but not
limited by that story or any other.
Disclaimer #2 Some characters appearing in this story are based on
copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and
others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those
copyrights.
Disclaimer #3 This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the
easily offended, especially those who are uncomfortable with such topics
as transgender, transformation, wizardry and beer-drinking.
The immense winged shape descended from the sky, black on black, almost
silent. It released its passenger without quite touching the ground, softly
enough that the woman was able to stay on her feet as she landed.
She turned and looked up at the creature which had carried her to Coast City
and called out, "Cor kcab ot worc," and watched while the dark silhouette
shrank to tiny size, still hovering. The crow flew off, seeming none the worse
for having carried a human being over a thousand miles.
Zatanna brushed down her tailcoat, checked her stockings, pulled her top hat
from a vest pocket and restored it to normal size. She climbed the hill toward
the House of Mystery, admiring the way its slightly canted windows looked like
malevolent yellow eyes as they shone out at the world.
The group was called Vertigo, because it had met for its first year at the
eccentrically-designed Vertigo House in Boston. These days, meetings rotated
among various places of power around North America, ranging from the crypt in
an old cemetery to the inner sanctum of a very unusual church. Tonight, they
were meeting at the historic House of Mystery, at a gathering hosted by its
caretaker, a man who was said to be more than he appeared. But then, in a
group like Vertigo, that was said about just about everyone.
Tim Moone, otherwise known as the Enchanter, was the doorkeeper for this
month's meeting, Zatanna saw. He was wearing a very old green velvet coat
which had once been quite showy and which still had a vague air of distinction
about it.
"Hi, Zee."
"Tim. I like your jacket."
He grinned.
"Recognize it?"
"It does seem vaguely familiar...."
"Think of the Wizard of Oz."
"The book, the movie, or the man himself?"
Moone looked startled.
"You mean there really was...?"
He recovered quickly.
"Think of the movie, the scene in Kansas, where the Wizard is Professor Marvel,
the down-at-heels magician."
------
Zatanna moved closer and ran a hand over the jacket's sleeve.
"This is the jacket Frank Morgan wore?"
"Yep. More than that, though. For the Kansas scenes, the costumers bought
most of the clothes and props at second-hand stores, to get an authentic look,
make a strong contrast with the Oz scenes. They were especially happy with the
jacket, even before they found the tag inside."
He held the jacket open so that Zatanna could see, beneath the stencil mark
that identified it as property of MGM studios, a faded tag, still clearly
reading "LFB".
"L. Frank Baum?"
"The very one. Authenticated by his widow."
Zatanna felt a chill. This kind of synchronicity was magic in more senses than
one. It was no wonder that Moone was pleased with having acquired it.
While they had been talking, a new figure had approached. At first Zatanna
took the creature for some sort of demon with yellow skin and green hair, but
on closer inspection it was obviously a young woman in body paint and an ill-
fitting fright wig. Besides that, she work only striped shorts, sandals and a
red feather boa.
"Greetings, mortals," the stranger growled in what she clearly hoped was an
inhuman voice, and tried to sidle past the pair.
Moone sidestepped to prevent the woman's passing through.
"Excuse me, Miss. Do you have an invitation?"
She cocked a painted eyebrow at him.
"Bar not my way, O Tim the Enchanter. The Creeper goes where she has need to
be."
She raised both hands and made a threatening catlike gesture that made her bare
yellow breasts jiggle, but Moone was not distracted by either display.
"I'm sorry, I can't let you in if you're not a member or the guest of a member."
The creeper slumped in disappointment.
"I don't get it," she said in a normal voice. "The crooks in Gotham City all
buy my demon act, but you guys who meet spooks all the time never do."
"That's just it," Zatanna butted in. "People who meet real demons are the last
ones who'll be fooled by a phony."
The creeper turned on Zatanna, glaring.
"Beware, mortal -- um, I mean, I'm not a phony! I have superhuman strength and
reflexes. I've beaten Dr. Tzin-Tzin, and Hellgrammite! I --"
"All well and good," zatanna said impatiently, "but you're not one of us. Your
powers smell of technology, and your outfit smells of greasepaint. You go
meddling with real supernatural phenomena, and you might go home to find out
that the yellow doesn't wash off anymore."
The Creeper swallowed hard, and probably turned pale under the paint.
Zatanna made a sudden gesture and the young woman flinched.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't do something that nasty to you. But there are those
who would do much worse, for less provocation than your little bluff here
tonight. That being the case, I don't feel too guilty about sending you home
in -- etairporppa sserd!"
The Creeper looked down and saw that her paint and costume had vanished,
replaced by a schoolgirl uniform complete with white knee socks and a pleated
skirt in a poisonous yellow-green-red plaid. She screamed and ran down the
hill, her pigtails flying around her head.
The two real wizards shared a laugh as they watched the gatecrasher flee.
"I don't think she'll have the nerve to try anything like that again."
"She does, she'll be spending a couple of weeks at a really nasty boarding
school I know about."
Zatanna went inside and found the gathering had already reached its lively
stage. She obtained a mug of beer from a Sumerian priestess who made it
herself acording to the old recipe. Sipping it, she walked around, exchanging
greetings with people she knew or recognized.
A squatty dark-skinned man in slacks and a pullover was talking with Lydia
Tarrant, better known as the Tattooed Lady. Zatanna didn't recognize him until
he turned slightly and she saw the huge star sapphire clinging to his forehead.
"Well, something must be up," Star Sapphire insisted, "or she wouldn't be
late. It's totally not like her."
Tarrant shrugged. She was wearing the shortest, lowest-cut black dress Zatanna
had ever seen, showing off a great deal of her tattooed skin Her ever-changing
collection of purplish tattoos shifted and rustled as they adjusted to the
shrug.
"Maybe she changed her mind? She keeps saying she's not one of us. And
knowing I'd be here, well, I know she doesn't like the idea of this being
neutral ground where she couldn't try to bust me."
Star Sapphire shook his head.
"I finally convinced her that the stones weren't some kind of intergalactic
science. It took her years to admit it, but now that she believes that our
powers are supernatural, she -- Zatanna!"
"Sapphire, Lydia."
"Zatanna, you've worked with Green Lantern, you know she isn't the kind to
back out of something at the last minute. And she wouldn't be late for no
reason, either."
The small man was looking seriously worried. Zatanna didn't know what kind of
relationship the two of them had, but he was clearly taking Green Lantern's
tardiness seriously.
Zatanna gave a dubious shrug.
"I could try to locate her by magic...."
"No, don't bother. I have better connections with her than anyone else, and I
can't raise her."
Feeling sorry for the man but with nothing to offer him, Zatanna moved on. In
the next room, a group were peering into a crystal the size of a beachball. It
showed a landscape like a fantasy loosely inspired by ancient Egypt, but she
knew it was really the other way around: this was the otherdimensional realm of
the beings once worshipped as gods by the ancient Egyptians, and which had
influenced the development of Egyptian civilization.
A bearded man, flamboyant in riding breeches and a green silk shirt open to the
waist, was talking excitedly to the group looking into the crystal, making
extravagant gestures with both hands.
"So like, they told me they could send me back, but since I'd only just barely
survived the trip out, it'd probably kill me if I went back again as Mitzi
Merlin. So they put my mind in this body that'd been vacated by their Prince
Ra-Amon like, thousands of years before."
Zatanna stepped through the group to lay a hand on the Prince's arm.
"Hey, Prince, so glad to finally meet you in the flesh...the new flesh, that
is. You know, back when you were a woman and I was a man, I had the biggest
crush on you...."
The Prince shrugged off her hand without being obvious about it and raised both
hands in front of him in protest.
"Sorry, honey, but unlike you I didn't change teams -- I still like boys!"
Prologue to the Last Earth-349 Story
by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D.
Disclaimer #1 This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within
the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but not
limited by that story or any other.
Disclaimer #2 Some characters appearing in this story are based on
copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and
others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those
copyrights.
Disclaimer #3 This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the
easily offended, especially those who are uncomfortable with such topics
as transgender, transformation, wizardry and beer-drinking.
The immense winged shape descended from the sky, black on black, almost
silent. It released its passenger without quite touching the ground, softly
enough that the woman was able to stay on her feet as she landed.
She turned and looked up at the creature which had carried her to Coast City
and called out, "Cor kcab ot worc," and watched while the dark silhouette
shrank to tiny size, still hovering. The crow flew off, seeming none the worse
for having carried a human being over a thousand miles.
Zatanna brushed down her tailcoat, checked her stockings, pulled her top hat
from a vest pocket and restored it to normal size. She climbed the hill toward
the House of Mystery, admiring the way its slightly canted windows looked like
malevolent yellow eyes as they shone out at the world.
The group was called Vertigo, because it had met for its first year at the
eccentrically-designed Vertigo House in Boston. These days, meetings rotated
among various places of power around North America, ranging from the crypt in
an old cemetery to the inner sanctum of a very unusual church. Tonight, they
were meeting at the historic House of Mystery, at a gathering hosted by its
caretaker, a man who was said to be more than he appeared. But then, in a
group like Vertigo, that was said about just about everyone.
Tim Moone, otherwise known as the Enchanter, was the doorkeeper for this
month's meeting, Zatanna saw. He was wearing a very old green velvet coat
which had once been quite showy and which still had a vague air of distinction
about it.
"Hi, Zee."
"Tim. I like your jacket."
He grinned.
"Recognize it?"
"It does seem vaguely familiar...."
"Think of the Wizard of Oz."
"The book, the movie, or the man himself?"
Moone looked startled.
"You mean there really was...?"
He recovered quickly.
"Think of the movie, the scene in Kansas, where the Wizard is Professor Marvel,
the down-at-heels magician."
------
Zatanna moved closer and ran a hand over the jacket's sleeve.
"This is the jacket Frank Morgan wore?"
"Yep. More than that, though. For the Kansas scenes, the costumers bought
most of the clothes and props at second-hand stores, to get an authentic look,
make a strong contrast with the Oz scenes. They were especially happy with the
jacket, even before they found the tag inside."
He held the jacket open so that Zatanna could see, beneath the stencil mark
that identified it as property of MGM studios, a faded tag, still clearly
reading "LFB".
"L. Frank Baum?"
"The very one. Authenticated by his widow."
Zatanna felt a chill. This kind of synchronicity was magic in more senses than
one. It was no wonder that Moone was pleased with having acquired it.
While they had been talking, a new figure had approached. At first Zatanna
took the creature for some sort of demon with yellow skin and green hair, but
on closer inspection it was obviously a young woman in body paint and an ill-
fitting fright wig. Besides that, she work only striped shorts, sandals and a
red feather boa.
"Greetings, mortals," the stranger growled in what she clearly hoped was an
inhuman voice, and tried to sidle past the pair.
Moone sidestepped to prevent the woman's passing through.
"Excuse me, Miss. Do you have an invitation?"
She cocked a painted eyebrow at him.
"Bar not my way, O Tim the Enchanter. The Creeper goes where she has need to
be."
She raised both hands and made a threatening catlike gesture that made her bare
yellow breasts jiggle, but Moone was not distracted by either display.
"I'm sorry, I can't let you in if you're not a member or the guest of a member."
The creeper slumped in disappointment.
"I don't get it," she said in a normal voice. "The crooks in Gotham City all
buy my demon act, but you guys who meet spooks all the time never do."
"That's just it," Zatanna butted in. "People who meet real demons are the last
ones who'll be fooled by a phony."
The creeper turned on Zatanna, glaring.
"Beware, mortal -- um, I mean, I'm not a phony! I have superhuman strength and
reflexes. I've beaten Dr. Tzin-Tzin, and Hellgrammite! I --"
"All well and good," zatanna said impatiently, "but you're not one of us. Your
powers smell of technology, and your outfit smells of greasepaint. You go
meddling with real supernatural phenomena, and you might go home to find out
that the yellow doesn't wash off anymore."
The Creeper swallowed hard, and probably turned pale under the paint.
Zatanna made a sudden gesture and the young woman flinched.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't do something that nasty to you. But there are those
who would do much worse, for less provocation than your little bluff here
tonight. That being the case, I don't feel too guilty about sending you home
in -- etairporppa sserd!"
The Creeper looked down and saw that her paint and costume had vanished,
replaced by a schoolgirl uniform complete with white knee socks and a pleated
skirt in a poisonous yellow-green-red plaid. She screamed and ran down the
hill, her pigtails flying around her head.
The two real wizards shared a laugh as they watched the gatecrasher flee.
"I don't think she'll have the nerve to try anything like that again."
"She does, she'll be spending a couple of weeks at a really nasty boarding
school I know about."
Zatanna went inside and found the gathering had already reached its lively
stage. She obtained a mug of beer from a Sumerian priestess who made it
herself acording to the old recipe. Sipping it, she walked around, exchanging
greetings with people she knew or recognized.
A squatty dark-skinned man in slacks and a pullover was talking with Lydia
Tarrant, better known as the Tattooed Lady. Zatanna didn't recognize him until
he turned slightly and she saw the huge star sapphire clinging to his forehead.
"Well, something must be up," Star Sapphire insisted, "or she wouldn't be
late. It's totally not like her."
Tarrant shrugged. She was wearing the shortest, lowest-cut black dress Zatanna
had ever seen, showing off a great deal of her tattooed skin Her ever-changing
collection of purplish tattoos shifted and rustled as they adjusted to the
shrug.
"Maybe she changed her mind? She keeps saying she's not one of us. And
knowing I'd be here, well, I know she doesn't like the idea of this being
neutral ground where she couldn't try to bust me."
Star Sapphire shook his head.
"I finally convinced her that the stones weren't some kind of intergalactic
science. It took her years to admit it, but now that she believes that our
powers are supernatural, she -- Zatanna!"
"Sapphire, Lydia."
"Zatanna, you've worked with Green Lantern, you know she isn't the kind to
back out of something at the last minute. And she wouldn't be late for no
reason, either."
The small man was looking seriously worried. Zatanna didn't know what kind of
relationship the two of them had, but he was clearly taking Green Lantern's
tardiness seriously.
Zatanna gave a dubious shrug.
"I could try to locate her by magic...."
"No, don't bother. I have better connections with her than anyone else, and I
can't raise her."
Feeling sorry for the man but with nothing to offer him, Zatanna moved on. In
the next room, a group were peering into a crystal the size of a beachball. It
showed a landscape like a fantasy loosely inspired by ancient Egypt, but she
knew it was really the other way around: this was the otherdimensional realm of
the beings once worshipped as gods by the ancient Egyptians, and which had
influenced the development of Egyptian civilization.
A bearded man, flamboyant in riding breeches and a green silk shirt open to the
waist, was talking excitedly to the group looking into the crystal, making
extravagant gestures with both hands.
"So like, they told me they could send me back, but since I'd only just barely
survived the trip out, it'd probably kill me if I went back again as Mitzi
Merlin. So they put my mind in this body that'd been vacated by their Prince
Ra-Amon like, thousands of years before."
Zatanna stepped through the group to lay a hand on the Prince's arm.
"Hey, Prince, so glad to finally meet you in the flesh...the new flesh, that
is. You know, back when you were a woman and I was a man, I had the biggest
crush on you...."
The Prince shrugged off her hand without being obvious about it and raised both
hands in front of him in protest.
"Sorry, honey, but unlike you I didn't change teams -- I still like boys!"
It Doesn't Take Long
...to get used to having someone around your home.
And then you don't, anymore, and it really hurts.
And you wait in patient hope of a reunion.
And you do what you can, meanwhile.
And then you don't, anymore, and it really hurts.
And you wait in patient hope of a reunion.
And you do what you can, meanwhile.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Playing Cat and Mouse (Over and Over In My Head)
For several years I have been haunted1 by "Cat and Mouse"2, an episode of The Twilight Zone3 in which a woman invites a stray cat into her home and learns that he is a man who has lived for centuries cursed to spend every day as a cat.4
They become lovers, which is beneficial to her since she has hitherto been crippled by extreme shyness (she is the "mouse" of the title), and he makes it clear from the beginning that he is interested only in a very casual relationship. Even so, she is crushed when she learns he has had sex with a friend of hers. So much that she decides to drug him, and he wakes up the next day in a cat-carrier at a veterinary clinic, where she is arranging to have him "fixed".
1 No, that is not too strong a term.
2 Which never should have occupied so much space in my head, but there it is.
3 And not even the classic Rod Serling series, but the 1980s color revival.
4 At night, he can change voluntarily between cat and man.
So why does this story keep coming back into my mind? Specifically, why did it climb into my head when I woke up at 3:00 AM and prevent me from getting back to sleep before the alarm went at 4 and I had to get up?
What does it mean to me? Do I feel as though I am in danger of being emasculated -- sexually, or socially, or . . . what? I don't get it.
My sex life is actually pretty good right now, and I seem to have better control over my sexuality than before -- it's been quite awhile since I did anything stupid and destructive on account of listening to my dick.
Not having regular work bothers me a lot. That could be it. It certainly makes me feel weak and helpless and impotent, and it prevents me from "doing my duty" by my wife and to a lesser extent by other people I care about.
Do I feel as though I am, like the cat-man, the victim of some immense, cruel, disproportionate revenge?
Possibly. Several times recently I have felt ill-used by demands and complaints that seem irrational and arbitrary.
I don't know. And I don't know why I have been feeling so irritable all morning when it has actually been a very enjoyable and undemanding day.
I've been feeling very pleased with myself over my increased self-awareness since I went through therapy, but times like this show me that there will always be limits to it. But at least I am noticing that my feelings are irrational, and not trying to blame them on someone or some circumstance around me.
They become lovers, which is beneficial to her since she has hitherto been crippled by extreme shyness (she is the "mouse" of the title), and he makes it clear from the beginning that he is interested only in a very casual relationship. Even so, she is crushed when she learns he has had sex with a friend of hers. So much that she decides to drug him, and he wakes up the next day in a cat-carrier at a veterinary clinic, where she is arranging to have him "fixed".
1 No, that is not too strong a term.
2 Which never should have occupied so much space in my head, but there it is.
3 And not even the classic Rod Serling series, but the 1980s color revival.
4 At night, he can change voluntarily between cat and man.
So why does this story keep coming back into my mind? Specifically, why did it climb into my head when I woke up at 3:00 AM and prevent me from getting back to sleep before the alarm went at 4 and I had to get up?
What does it mean to me? Do I feel as though I am in danger of being emasculated -- sexually, or socially, or . . . what? I don't get it.
My sex life is actually pretty good right now, and I seem to have better control over my sexuality than before -- it's been quite awhile since I did anything stupid and destructive on account of listening to my dick.
Not having regular work bothers me a lot. That could be it. It certainly makes me feel weak and helpless and impotent, and it prevents me from "doing my duty" by my wife and to a lesser extent by other people I care about.
Do I feel as though I am, like the cat-man, the victim of some immense, cruel, disproportionate revenge?
Possibly. Several times recently I have felt ill-used by demands and complaints that seem irrational and arbitrary.
I don't know. And I don't know why I have been feeling so irritable all morning when it has actually been a very enjoyable and undemanding day.
I've been feeling very pleased with myself over my increased self-awareness since I went through therapy, but times like this show me that there will always be limits to it. But at least I am noticing that my feelings are irrational, and not trying to blame them on someone or some circumstance around me.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
Maybe it's been a long year for you. A hard one. A disappointing one.
Maybe you lost someone -- to death, or circumstance, or estrangement.
Maybe you didn't do something you wanted to. Maybe you didn't stop doing something you shouldn't do.
Maybe you are far from home, or someone close to you is far from home. Maybe home doesn't feel like home anymore.
Hang up a string of lights anyway. Listen to happy music. Or if you can't bear to, at least listen to something encouraging.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g4lY8Y3eoo
The year is ending. A new year is coming. It's going to be different from last year, one way or another.
Maybe you lost someone -- to death, or circumstance, or estrangement.
Maybe you didn't do something you wanted to. Maybe you didn't stop doing something you shouldn't do.
Maybe you are far from home, or someone close to you is far from home. Maybe home doesn't feel like home anymore.
Hang up a string of lights anyway. Listen to happy music. Or if you can't bear to, at least listen to something encouraging.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g4lY8Y3eoo
The year is ending. A new year is coming. It's going to be different from last year, one way or another.
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