Clock King’s Reign

FOUR YEARS PREVIOUSLY:

Professor Yuri Nabakov knew he was brilliant, however, while left alone, shackled to a stone wall with metal bands and itching intolerably, he could have been forgiven for doubting himself. He was resisting the urge to accede to his captor’s demand. Doing so was, of course, out of the question. Really. He wanted to scratch himself, but could not. All he could do was review the events that had brought him into this uncomfortable predicament and vainly wish it would end.

It had begun when he received an email at his St. Petersburg office. A representative from a California biotech firm had indicated interest in his services. The dollar figure offered just to talk to him face to face had been more than adequate to make the trip worthwhile. He had reasoned the compensation the firm would offer would be most generous.

Enticed, he had followed the provided link to the company’s web site and been impressed enough to write them back. Their response had impressed him more. He had been encouraged to fly himself to the interview. Piloting his private plane was one of his hobbies. If this company always researched recruits this thoroughly, there was no telling how successful they could be, he had reasoned. The company had cleared the considerable bureaucratic hurdles involved in international flight. Nabakov knew how expensive that could be. Impressed yet again, he had agreed to the interview.

He had enjoyed the flight enormously and been met at the private airfield by a young woman who had to be the intern his email had said he could expect. "Ms. Smith?" he asked hopefully in his Russian accent.

"Tara," she had responded smiling. "Right this way, Professor." She had led him to a waiting limousine and opened the back door for him. Once he had been inside, she had slipped behind the wheel and driven him to a warehouse.

Professor Nabakov later realized the warehouse should have been a warning sign. Tara Smith had retrieved him and ushered him into a comfortable waiting area. "Let me just check in," she had said and vanished through a door. He had taken a seat and begun paging through a Newsmaker magazine when he had heard the hiss of the gas being pumped into the room. Blackness had descended painlessly.

Tara had looked different when he saw her again. The conservatively dressed, yet pretty intern was gone. The vision replacing her wore her white hair in a ponytail cascading to the small of her back. Her outfit matched her hair. Her top encased her slim abdomen and ascended to contain her breasts before joining at and encircling her neck to leave her shoulders and back bare. A pair of elbow length gloves was accented with pink designs highlighting her flesh. White pants sheathed her legs and matching boots completed her outfit. The pair of green lenses she wore made her eyes appear catlike whenever she regarded him.

"Who are you?" Professor Nabakov had asked upon realizing he had been shackled to a stone wall with thin metal bands. "What’s happening?"

"My name is Tara Smith," Tara had said, "but people will learn to call me Teen Supreme. You are my guest, Professor. We have so much to talk about."

"You invited me to apply for a job."

"Yes."

"But, you do not represent an American biotech firm. Do you?"

"Let’s just say I’m representing myself. Exclusively."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"So you would come."

"What do you want with me?"

"I need your Metamorphosis Formula."

"It’s been destroyed," he had said far too quickly. "How did you know about it, anyway?"

"I’ve been corresponding with Ali Baba. He told me all about how it was used to turn DynaGirl from the good girl she is into his evil henchwoman."

"Temporarily, thank goodness."

"You’re going to make more for me," Teen Supreme had predicted.

"What you ask is utterly impossible. There is nothing you can do to me that would ever make me produce any more of that vile formula. It is too dangerous in the wrong hands. I nearly died while the formula effected DynaGirl."

"I know. That’s precisely why I’m interested in it."

"There is nothing you can do to make me give it up."

"Are you so sure?" Teen Supreme had asked, striding slowly toward him and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

"I am quite positive," he had said. They had both known he was weakening. Teen Supreme was well on her way to blossoming into full womanhood. When the transformation was complete, she would be quite lovely. Obviously, these facts were not lost on the young woman. "What are you going to do to me?" Professor Nabakov had asked, fearfully, yet curiously.

Teen Supreme had giggled and pulled the shirt open, exposing his chest. Stroking his chest with one hand she had torn the shirt from his back and tossed the remnants playfully aside. "I’m going to persuade you," she had whispered huskily, "Doctor."

"That’s Professor!" Nabakov had responded sharply. The spell Tara had begun to weave had shattered irreparably.

Teen Supreme had stepped back, pouting. "You’re no fun," she had said. She had then crossed to a table with a vast array of bottled chemicals arranged with other scientific equipment. "I suppose we’ll have to do it the hard way. It won’t be as much fun, of course, but I will get my results sooner."

The woman in white had returned to her prisoner with a beaker of liquid and a brush. She had spilled the contents of the beaker across his pectoral muscles and used the brush to slowly spread it across his chest, shoulders and along his upper arms. "What is this?" Professor Nabakov had asked fearfully.

"I’m so glad you asked, Professor," Teen Supreme had said tartly. "In a matter of seconds, this chemical will react with your skin and cause a harmless irritation which will grow more and more unbearable unless someone attends to it——someone other than you."

"Oh, my God!" Professor Nabakov had said.

Teen Supreme had laughed and continued, "and if you imagine I’m going to trouble myself before you give me everything I want . . ."

"Where are you going?" Professor Nabakov had asked as Teen Supreme moved to the door. She had let her threat hang in the air and was going to leave him while her chemical did its wicked work.

"I’ll be back in a bit, Professor. I have a few things to fetch before we start brewing up a batch of your formula. Don’t go anywhere." As she had left, he remembered hearing her giggle while her chemical began to function.

Upon reflection, Professor Nabakov decided a California biotech firm would not have its international headquarters at a warehouse. If fact, he deduced the warehouse had probably been abandoned, making it a perfect hideout for Teen Supreme, Ali Baba and their ilk.

He now needed to scratch himself very badly.

He decided to work out what Teen Supreme had used to induce the irritation from which he was suffering. This line of thought would be more productive than reviewing the events leading to his predicament. He had nearly worked out the answer when Tara returned.

"All right, Professor," Tara said brandishing a back scratcher with a grin. "Here’s how this will work. I will ask questions. You will answer them. I will act on your answers and reproduce your formula. As long as our conversation is productive, I will attend to your needs." She scratched tentatively at his chest bringing visible relief. "Oh," she said, pausing, "if the formula fails, I’ll soak you in a tub of my liquid itching formula - - -

"- - - overnight! Just so you know. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Professor Nabakov said, nodding vigorously.

"Yes, what?" Tara demanded sharply.

“Yes, Tara."

Try again," Tara said wickedly.

"Yes, Miss Smith." Professor Nabakov cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Ms. Smith."

"Very good, Professor," Teen Supreme complimented. "Still wrong, but very good."

"Yes, Teen Supreme. What do you wish to know?"

"Isn’t power delicious?" Tara asked rhetorically. Then she scratched him with her implement and began the serious questioning. Professor Nabakov cooperated totally.

Once Tara had brewed a batch of the formula, she turned to the Professor and released him. As he collapsed and scratched himself, she stood over him and placed her hands on her hips. "Thank you, Professor. I’ll step out and fetch the antidote to my itching chemical and a couple test subjects so we can make sure they metamorphose into their complete and absolute opposites. Of course, if they don’t, I will be very angry with you. On the other hand, you may please me enormously and enable me to write the check I promised you. That expense will be nothing compared with what I can steal once I can use your formula to transform my greatest enemies into doting sycophants." She laughed and crossed the room. "Don’t worry. I’ll hurry this time."

Professor Nabakov had not been paying attention. He had been vigorously scratching himself. Moments after Tara’s departure, a strange wheezing groaning echoed through the chamber. A tall blue box the size of a telephone booth clearly labeled "POLICE BOX" stood a few feet from the table when the noise abated.

"Thank God the authorities have arrived! I must say, officer, your entrance was quite impressive," Professor Nabakov said to the girl who emerged from the blue box.

She appeared to be about the same age as Teen Supreme. She did not look much like a police officer, but Professor Nabakov was in no position to be picky. He continued to scratch himself.

"Are you all right?" the girl asked. She reached to help him.

"Don’t touch him, Susan!"

"Grandfather!" Susan said, backing away.

The white haired man who followed her from the box wore an Edwardian style suit and carried a walking stick. The old man bent to examine the professor more closely and quietly asked, "Now then, young man. Tell me what happened."

Professor Nabakov pointed at the table. "My formula," he said and went back to scratching himself.

Susan was already examining the chemicals and equipment littering the table.

"It could be an acid," Susan speculated.

"Possibly," the old man said, "but I’m not sure. The skin would be reacting differently, I think. We must determine with which of these chemicals the man came into contact, otherwise, it will be impossible to counteract it."

"What about this one?" Susan said, indicating the beaker holding the professor’s formula and reaching to pick it up.

"No!" Professor Nabakov said, putting his discomfort aside and lunging at the girl.

"Now see here!" The old man began moving to intercept him.

Unfortunately, the crazed professor was faster than the old man and collided with the girl examining the beaker of dangerous liquid. The old man reached to steady her as the beaker fell from her hands and shattered on the edge of the table. Liquid splashed on her exposed hands. Professor Nabakov was wide eyed with horror and rolled aside to avoid the splattering liquid.

"Not again!" the professor said sadly.

"Are you all right, child?" the old man was saying. "How do you feel?"

"I’m fine, Grandfather." Susan said. "What do you think happened?"

"It seems the chemical that spilled is not the reason that poor man is scratching himself.”

"Who?" Susan asked.

"That little man over there staring at you as though you’re diseased all of a sudden," the old man said.

Susan stepped toward Professor Nabakov, stood over him and let her hands settle on her hips as she regarded him. Professor Nabakov scooted backward, looking fearfully up at her. "Tell me, little man, what happened?"

"My formula has infected you. The effect will be euphoric at first as you are transformed. Unless I can reverse the process in time, the effects could become permanent," Professor Nabakov pleaded. Infuriatingly, he returned to scratching himself.

"How long do I have?" Susan asked interestedly as here eyes narrowed.

"I don’t really know." Professor Nabakov admitted, all the while scratching vigorously. "I’ve never allowed an experiment to go that far. The effects of the formula are too horrible."

"Oh, goodness," Susan’s companion said. "That little man is infected with something that obviously makes him very uncomfortable. Worse, Susan changed after coming into contact with the contents of that shattered beaker. I must gather a sample for analysis."

Quickly he knelt beside the shattered beaker and began to carefully place the shards of glass in a handkerchief. Once they had all been gathered, he placed them on a clear spot on the table. He followed up by soaking the puddle of spilled formula into another handkerchief, which he sealed in a plastic bag. As he set the sample beside the broken glass on the table, he glanced at the liquid residue which had smeared on his fingers with distaste. The old man turned from the table and became still, his gaze transfixed on the scene before him.

"What are you doing?" Professor Nabakov demanded. "Oh, God, you touched it! Now, it’s infecting you!" His head fell into his hands. "What have I done? I knew it would be a mistake to make more of that vile drug!"

"I disagree, little man," Susan announced. "I like how I feel. And I have no intention of letting you or anyone else change that." She pointed at him and approached menacingly.

"You don’t understand! You are not well! You’ve become evil! Evil begets more evil!"

Susan towered over the cowering Professor. She looked down at him and let a wicked smile curl the corners of her mouth. "Then you should be very worried, little man," she said quietly.

"I am worried, you stupid woman! That’s what I’m trying to tell you! The old man has been standing there leering at you since he cleaned up the mess. Do you think you’ll be safe with him? Please, let me help you."

"How dare you!" Susan demanded. "I will not be insulted like this." She slapped him hard across the mouth and left an angry red mark. "Not ever!"

"What is that little man babbling about, child?" the old man asked. As he watched her lord it over the hapless professor, he realized her childhood had passed some time ago.

"He’s just insulted me, Grandfather," Susan remarked darkly. "He says his formula has turned us evil and that one of the ways we can tell is that we like how we feel." She smirked and went on sarcastically, "He claims he wants to help us. I think we should help ourselves to these chemicals. I also think maybe we should do something about him before he really annoys us."

"Excellent idea, child. Can you do something with this?" The old man indicated the chemicals.

"I think so. Can you deal with him?" Susan let her wicked gaze rake the cowering academic again.

"Of course, I can."

"Good. Tell me, Grandfather, how do you feel?"

"I’ve been considering that question," the old man admitted. "I feel younger than I have in a very long time. I’m full of energy! Yes! This is marvelous! You and I have the entire universe sprawled before us to plunder. Unlimited wealth can be ours, but the money is merely a means to other ends. It occurs to me we could punish those who perpetuated our exile, but, with our freedom, those concerns, while festering constantly, are secondary. What I really need is a proving ground for my intellect. A worthy opponent. Someone to challenge me, even unwittingly, but we’ll have plenty of time to consider the future. You had some ideas we should put into practice here. Didn’t you?"

"Yes, indeed. Why don’t you see to the little man while I make some preparations?" Susan smiled wickedly as she spoke and turned back to the table.

The old man whirled to face the fearful scientist, who continued to scratch himself. The old man began to strike him with the walking stick. Susan’s grandfather backed the victim to the wall, where the unhappy professor found himself shackled once again.

When the old man was satisfied their intended victim was secure, he returned to Susan’s side. "Well," he said, patting his granddaughter on the shoulder.

"Be careful, Grandfather. I’m making nitroglycerine. You know how volatile it will be. If I drop this, the effects will be less than fortuitous."

"Of course," the old men said, removing his hand. With a glint in his eye, he picked up the sealed bag with the formula-soaked handkerchief and approached the prisoner.

"What are you doing, Grandfather?" Susan asked.

"This fool is afraid of his own formula. I think it might be interesting to infect him with it as well."

"No," Susan said. "We don’t know how the itching agent will react with the formula. And besides, he insulted me."

"Perhaps you’re right. So, what have you planned for the miscreant?"

Susan carefully placed her homemade bomb on the floor where the opening door would nudge it. "There," she said, straightening to admire her handiwork.

"Splendid, child. When the door opens, your little concoction will be toppled and explode, making a mess of everyone in the vicinity."

"Precisely, Grandfather. The explosion will punish the little man and take out anyone else who may know we were ever here. Shall we go?"

"Of course," the old man said, chortling to himself and offering Susan his arm. "Of course."

"Grandfather," Susan said, a bit exasperated. "The table. Grab one end of the table."

"Of course, I nearly forgot." They picked the chemical-laden table up between them and carried it into the impossibly small box.

"Bye bye, little man," Susan said emerging from the box a moment later. She then went inside, closing the door behind her, seconds before the blue box noisily vanished.

Tara returned through a secret door a few minutes later. "Well, Professor Nabakov, I see your formula works."

"Did you arrange all that?"

"No.’’

"Who were those two?" the professor asked as Tara administered the antidote to her itching chemical.

"I don’t know," she admitted, "but they did one other thing for me."

"What was that?"

"They gave me a good reason to administer all of my chemicals in capsule form in the future." Teen Supreme released Nabakov. "Come, Professor, I’ll get your check. You’ve earned it."

Nabakov was surprised the horrid girl was actually going to pay him. Still, he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Thank you. How did you know to avoid the bomb the girl left for us?"

"I watched the whole thing on my monitors. That’s why I can let you go now. My tape will tell me how to reproduce the formula myself."

"What are you going to do about the bomb? What about your chemicals?"

"I’ll explode the bomb later. The chemicals are just chemicals. I can get more. Come on."

Soon, Tara would be able to use the formula on DynaGirl. That would be fun. Of course, it was always possible she would devise a more entertaining way to turn the young heroine to Teen Supreme's way of thinking! She resolved to begin pondering alternatives.

Professor Nabakov returned to his country and his office, chiding himself. He had given a dangerous formula to an American criminal, turned two good people with a strange means of travel evil and almost died. This sort of thing seemed to happen whenever his vile formula was unleashed upon the world. The worst thing was his being helpless to stop Teen Supreme’s plans.

If only there were a way to alert ElectraWoman and DynaGirl!

But sending an email to their computer, Crimescope, would be as difficult as emailing the Batcomputer.

Then he realized the thing he could do. He was on the Internet in seconds: surfing, searching and finally finding Newsmaker magazine. They had interviewed him around the time he had been kidnaped by Ali Baba. Perhaps someone there would remember him. He sent an email detailing his story, or as much of it as he felt would be believed. Maybe there was a chance. Maybe.

THE NEXT YEAR IN GOTHAM CITY:

Two newly hired Second Hands were lounging around when a big blue box materialized with a fearful wheezing groaning noise. More ominous were the words ‘‘Police Box’’ adorning the box above the single door.

"How do they know?’’ one the thugs said, quivering.

"It isn’t the cops," the second Second Hand said condescendingly. A recent high school dropout, he was much younger than his associate. “I saw that thing in the corner when the old man interviewed us about the job."

"Could it be Batman?" the first Second Hand asked.

"What did I just say?" his partner demanded with a shake of his long brown hair.

"Okay, smart guy. How did it get here, then?"

"That I don’t know."

If the sudden appearance of the blue box had been a surprise, their new boss’s young moll stepping out of it was just as much of a surprise. At their interview, she had acted like a hostess, seemingly deferring to the old man constantly. Her name was Susan.

"Up and at ‘em, boys. I’ve got a job for you."

"We work for the old man," the first man informed her.

"Your loss," Susan said, her eyes narrowing. "In that case, you’d each better take these. They’ll tell you when His Majesty, The Clock King, needs you." Susan dipped a hand into a voluminous pocket and extracted a pair of pocket watches. The men each took one.

After five seconds, the alarm on the watch Susan had given the man who had defied her sounded. "What is this?" he asked.

"Why don’t you find out?" Susan asked, witheringly.

The man opened his pocket watch. A cloud of gas was released that knocked him instantly unconscious.

"What was that?" the conscious Second Hand asked.

"Something I set up to let you guys know it’s time to get with the program. Are you coming?"

The Second Hand followed her into the box. Once he stepped through the interior double doors, he could only stare. Susan was standing at the mushroom-like, hexagonal console. "It’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside!" he said, stating the obvious. "And there are circles all over the walls."

"Step forward," Susan ordered. Once her companion had complied, she closed the doors. Seconds later, the wheezing groaning which had heralded the box’s coming sounded as Susan put the ship on course.

"What is that?" Susan’s companion asked, pointing at the rotating apparatus moving up and down in the center of the console.

"It’s called the Time Rotor," Susan told him.

"What is this thing we are in?"

"It’s the TARDIS, Time And Relative Dimensions In Space, a space ship that can also travel through time, like H. G. Wells wrote about.”

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"Why does this TARDIS say 'POLICE BOX' on it?"

"I've been wondering about that. It's supposed to change to blend in with the environment. Why it has adopted the form of a mid-Twentieth Century English police box-" Suddenly Susan burst out laughing. "Maybe it's trying to attract a policeman! Anyway, we’re here."

"Are we landing?"

"Materializing. Yes." Susan switched on the scanner and they stared as the light on top of the ship glittered off of the gem-studded walls of the subterranean gallery in which they had appeared. She opened the doors and turned to leave as her companion stood, remaining transfixed by the image on the screen.

"I’m not in Gotham any more!" the Second Hand observed with concern.

"Coming?" she asked, stepping outside. "Leave the door open. We’ll need the light." The Second Hand followed a moment later and found the girl filling a big chest with the larger of the jewels she picked carefully from the walls. He helped her finish filling the chest and aided her in moving it into the TARDIS.

"How did you know about this place?"

"That doesn’t matter. There are several places like it in the universe."

"The jewels are everywhere out there! We’re rich!"

‘‘No. We’re very rich," Susan told him, laughing. “The chest is for you and your partner, whom we left behind in Gotham City. It you want to keep it all for yourself, that’s fine with me."

Susan dematerialized the TARDIS, which rematerialized in the deserted records room of Gotham City Police Headquarters. "Give me your pocket watch." Her companion obeyed. ‘‘Wait here." She stepped from the TARDIS and put the pocket watch on top of a file cabinet. She returned to the ship and let it fade into the time/space vortex. The pair watched on the ship’s scanner as a patrolling policeman was drawn to the watch by its sounding alarm and promptly gassed.

The TARDIS once again rematerialized. Susan opened the doors.

"Handcuff and gag him," Susan ordered. As her help obeyed, Susan found the file cabinet devoted to supervillains and extracted a file.

When the Second Hand finished, he rejoined Susan inside the TARDIS. He found her sitting at a table, poring over the thick file she had taken. At intervals she waved a strange looking disc over various pages.

"Susan, will you be long?"

"I’m sorry," she said. "Come with me." She led him to a room with an Olympic sized swimming pool. "You can get some exercise while you wait. Changing rooms are through those doors. You’ll find everything you need in there. I’ll come and get you when I want you again." She turned and left.

Much later, Susan returned to the pool and watched the boy swim for a few minutes, admiring his smooth muscles and hairless chest.

Finally, she stepped into view. "Have you finished?" he asked, once he noticed her.

"Yes," she said. "Can you find your way back to the console room?"

"I think so," he said, "but if this machine can travel through time, do we have to get back right away?"

"Why wouldn’t we?"

"I thought you might want to take a break. Maybe even have some fun.”

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Maybe you’d like to come in and swim. Then we could see what happens."

"Hmmm," she said, favoring him with an enigmatic smile. "You mean swim, with you?"

"Well," he said, blushing, "yes."

"You’re on the clock!" Susan said, turning. "I’ll see you in the console room."

"Another time?" he asked, hopefully.

"Perhaps," she said to herself, as she walked away.

When the young Second Hand returned to the console room, Susan was just returning the contents of the file, making sure they remained in the order in which she had found them. When she noticed him, she moved back to the console and slipped the TARDIS back in time. "Release the guard," she ordered, opening the doors.

As he complied, she replaced the file and retrieved her booby-trapped pocket watch.

"We’re all set, Susan," the Second Hand reported a moment later.

"Good," she said, taking a last look around and returning to the ship. "Let’s go."

The TARDIS materialized in the spot where Susan had picked up the Second Hand originally. She helped him move his chest of gems from the ship. "I’ll give you a few minutes to put your treasures away while I speak to my grandfather. When I come back, I’ll need both of you for our next little project. Understand?"

"Yes, Susan. Err, is it all right for me to call you that, by the way?"

Susan smiled and asked, "Is there another name you’d like to call me?"

"I was thinking, while I was in the pool, you could call yourself Time Piece once you take over for the old man, your grandfather."

"Watch it!" she warned and returned to the TARDIS, which vanished.

Next, she picked up her grandfather. “I understand you’re putting the final touches on the preparations for another meeting with Batman."

"Indeed, child. I’ll be staying for a time at the Best Western Clock Tower Resort & Conference Center in Rockford, Illinois, to look over their famous Time Museum and meet with the curator, a Mr. Guilford. This venture will demonstrate to that Clock King chap how easily he can be replaced. Once we’ve finished with Batman, I’m sure we will be able to convince Mr. Fugate to retire in comfort."

"We’ll see about that," Susan said vaguely.

“Did you get it programmed?” the Time Lord asked his descendant.

“Here, grandfather." Susan handed the strange looking disc to him.

The old man held it up, as if examining a fine jewel. “A Subcutaneous Identity Disc, ready to be activated! No wonder knowledge of its existence was hidden away deep within the Matrix!” The evil Doctor and Susan had dared to access the Amplified Panatropic Computer on Gallifrey, something their normal selves would have never risked.

The evil Doctor pushed it against his neck. The disc disappeared and instantly the old Time Lord seemed to be replaced by The Clock King! "Thank you, child." Even his voice and fingerprints had changed!

Susan said. "I’ll set the coordinates for Illinois while you pack."

When he had finished packing, he stood at the console beside Susan while they landed. "Yes, Susan, it’s time we emerged from that chap’s shadow. We’ve timed encounters with Batman just after he was arrested, which has been amusing, profitable and taught us how incompetent most of Gotham City’s thugs are. I think it is time to change the game. You’ll be alright with the ship?"

"Yes, Grandfather. I’ll be fine."

"Splendid. Goodbye then."

The TARDIS arrived to pick up the Second Hands fifteen minutes after it had left. The doors opened. "Let’s go," Susan said.

Both entered. "It’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside!" the newly recovered thug said.

Susan took the ship to a spot outside an apartment building as the morning sun touched the sky.

"What are we doing here, Susan?"

"Waiting for Temple Fugate. He’ll be leaving that apartment within five minutes." They waited and watched.

"Temple Fugate is The Clock King, right?" the first Second Hand asked.

"That is about to change," Susan said.

"That isn’t Clock King’s apartment, is it?"

"No."

"Whose apartment is it?" the young Second Hand asked.

"I think it’s his girl's. The cops had this place staked out until their money ran out."

Presently, a well-dressed man emerged from the building, checked his watch and made his way to a nearby bus stop. "All right. You have about two minutes to subdue him and get him aboard the ship before the bus shows up. Move it!"

The Second Hands left the TARDIS and approached the elderly, somewhat rotund, super-villain casually. "Excuse me, sir. Do you have the time of day?" Rob, the sixteen year old, asked.

As Temple Fugate consulted his watch, the older thug stepped behind him and swung at the back of his head. The villain seemed to stumble and the attacking henchman’s blow hit Rob, knocking the teen flat. The old man drove an elbow into his attacker, doubling the older goon over. Then he turned and began to counterattack in earnest. Clock King was surprisingly spry for one his age and size.

Susan frowned at the scanner from inside the ship. "Do I have to do everything?" She opened the doors and approached the fight.

Temple Fugate was going through Susan’s assistants pockets. "Try to mug The Clock King, will you?" he gloated. "Well, my clocking both of you should be a wake-up call. It’s well past time you learned you cannot just go around mashing elderly people. I’ll bet you thought I was a fossil or something. I showed you I can take a licking and keep on ticking!" He chuckled, enjoying himself. Gleefully, he kicked the older thug in the ribs.

"Excuse me," Susan said, stumbling into him and slipping the watch lowest on his right wrist off with consummate skill.

"Are you all right, Miss?"

"I think so. Thank you. Do you know what time the bus will come?"

"Oh, it should be here in--" he glanced at his wrist and his eyes widened. "One of these ruffians stole my favorite watch!" He kicked the young thug this time. Susan smiled. They deserved it.

"Here," she offered. "Look at mine." As he did, a cloud of knockout gas enveloped his head, a second before he collapsed. Susan held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose as he fell.

"Gosh, Susan," said Rob, rubbing his side, "You sure took care of him."

"I wasn’t supposed to have to. Now, bring Fugate." Susan turned her back on the Second Hands and returned to the TARDIS.

Moments later, her victim was dragged through the console room. "Take him through all the open doors," Susan said, pointing. Once the young hood had obeyed, she returned her attention to the console.

"Excuse me," Rob said when he returned. "What do you want me to do about my partner?"

"Who?"

"You know, the guy your grandfather hired the same time as me."

"Oh, him. Well, I suppose you should drag his not-so-mighty carcass in here. You can have him guard Fugate. But hurry."

The teenage Second Hand departed and returned soon, carrying his comrade. "He’s still unconscious. Besides that, he has a fantastic shiner.” Susan dematerialized the ship.

"Get him out of here before I give him another one to match!" He obeyed.

"Are we there yet?" the Second Hand asked when he returned to the console room.

"No," Susan said. Although Rob had some points in his favour, all his questions were quickly becoming tiresome.

"How long will it be?"

"No time at all."

"Where are we going?"

"A place to which you will not want me to return," she said cryptically. "Stay here and don’t touch anything. I have things to do while we travel."

The TARDIS spun through the space/time vortex bringing Temple Fugate, The Clock King, ever closer to the heinous death Susan Foreman had planned for him.

"Are we there yet?" Susan’s companion asked again later, when she returned to the console room.

"No," Susan repeated.

"How long will it be?"

"No time at all."

"You said that last time I asked."

Susan glanced at him and mastered a flash of anger. If she hadn’t thought she needed the Second Hands for the rough stuff, she would have left both of them behind, no matter how cute one of them happened to be. "Okay, let me explain this again. The TARDIS is a time machine that also travels through space."

"I still never heard of H. G. Wells."

"He wrote a book called The Time Machine."

"Really?"

Susan rolled her eyes and smiled as the Time Rotor stopped moving. "We’re here," she announced.

"Where are we?"

"Another planet."

"Mars?"

"No, it’s in a galaxy far, far away."

"Is it a long time ago?"

"No." Susan smiled. Rob might not know anything about literature, but at least he was up on his movies.

"But, it could have been, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, now that we’re here, what do you want me to do?"

"Wake up your buddy and bring Mr. Fugate here. We’re going to drop him off."

"You mean we’re going to maroon him on a strange, far away planet?"

"Not for very long." As the Second Hand moved to obey, she smiled.

Temple Fugate was known in Susan’s recently adopted hometown of Gotham City as The Clock King, a super-villain. He planned crimes with the precision of a Swiss watch and executed them flawlessly according to a preset timetable. His knowledge of public transportation schedules and the like was prodigious.

Susan’s grandfather had come to Gotham City with plans to challenge Batman in the guise of a new villain, Time Lord. He had quickly become aware of Fugate and had executed crimes in a similar manner to the villain just after the man had been incarcerated. While useful for such subterfuge, Fugate’s continued presence would only interfere, the Time Lord had decided. Gotham City was only big enough for one villain with a time motif. Therefore, Time Lord went on to hire a small crew of thugs he called Second Hands, named after Clock King’s own goons. He planned to send them to seek an audience with the Monarch of Moments. Once it was granted, he planned to offer a stupendous sum of money for the man to quietly retire in comfort. Time Lord would then become The Clock King, taking advantage of Fugate’s reputation.

Susan had doubted, though, that Fugate would agree, since the motive for his crimes was not monetary gain, but collecting rare timepieces. He, like her grandfather, also relished the challenge of confronting Batman. Susan, therefore, had come up with a better, and cheaper, alternative: kidnap Clock King and take him for a ride.

"Welcome, Your Majesty," Susan said as the villain was brought to her.

"Young lady, how dare you allow these ruffians to manhandle me!"

"I’m afraid that is precisely what they have been paid to do, Your Majesty," Susan objected sweetly.

"Do I know you?"

"No, Your Majesty," she said, favoring him with a knowing smile. "You never will."

"What is the meaning of this?" The Clock King demanded.

"Temple Fugate, until my associates collected you——"

"Kidnaped me, you mean," Clock King interrupted.

"If you insist. Until my associates kidnaped you, The Clock King was one of two time-oriented villains in Gotham City. That situation is about to change. When our conversation is concluded, there will be only one."

Fugate looked at Susan warily. "What are you trying to say?"

Susan pulled a lever to open the pair of double doors on one side of the room. "I’m offering you one chance to abdicate on your own. Outside is the heart of the only city on the planet Skaro."

"The what?"

"The only city on the planet Skaro," Susan repeated. "I assure you, outside this city is nothing but inhospitable wilderness."

"That’s very generous."

"Not at all. Are you ready?"

"Okay, what’s the joke. This is all very funny. The planet Skaro. Really," Fugate said, laughing. "I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. Skaro. Hilarious."

Susan began to laugh with him and waited for the Second Hands to join her. "Oh, Temple," she said, still laughing, "I’m quite serious. Boys, throw him out!" When she finished speaking, she was not laughing anymore.

The Second Hands approached Fugate, who was not prepared to defend himself. Rob pushed the Clock King back into the other’s arms and took their victim’s ankles. The Second Hand who had caught the victim’s shoulders took his wrists. They swung him back and forth in front of the open doors.

"Expel him!" Susan ordered. She reversed the lever controlling the doors one second after Clock King passed through.

Fugate picked himself up and was surprised to realize he had emerged from a tall blue phone booth labeled ‘‘Police Box.’’ "It was bigger on the inside that it is on the outside. How is that possible?" He walked around the blue box and listened to the strange wheezing groaning it made as a light flashed on top. “What on Earth is going on?" Clock King demanded of no one in particular after the blue box had vanished.

He was in a metal corridor that looked nothing like anything he had ever seen. He stroked his chin thoughtfully and realized his coat was stuck to his shirt sleeve. "Static electricity," he mused aloud. "What is this place——the planet Skaro? And what will happen next?"

Back in the box, Susan set the ship to hover in the time/space vortex and switched on her scanner to witness her plans for Fugate unfold.

"What happens now?" the older Second Hand asked.

"Shut up," she ordered. "I’ve been looking forward to this."

"What?"

"I said shut up! Where are they? If I were a Movellan invasion force——oh, there they are."

The villainous trio silently watched the screen as three short, dome-headed yet conical machines devoid of human features glided into view, hovering just above the metal floor of the corridor. Rows of circular sensors were arranged on panels between their bases and their dome-shaped heads. As they surrounded Clock King, it seemed to him the aliens looked like giant pepper shakers with a trio of appendages.

"What kind of machines are those?" Rob asked.

"Inside, they’re alive," Susan said, "but Fugate won’t be much longer." She laughed.

The longest appendages looked like a plunger and the machine creatures prodded him with them, while their medium sized appendages moved up and down, seeming to study him. The shortest appendage did nothing.

Clock King moved his hand up and down in front of the medium sized appendage and watched it follow his movements. "It can see with that one," Fugate said. Then he addressed the machine creatures. "Can you hear me? Take me to your leader."

One of the machine creatures spoke. Its mechanically sibilant voice reverberated fearfully through the corridors. The distortion in the voice may have been due to the volume of its modulated grating. "THE IN-TRU-DER IS HU-MAN," it said.

"How do you know?" Clock King stammered. "What are you?"

"WHAT DOES THE SU-PREME DA-LEK OR-DER?" another alien voice grated mechanically, ignoring him.

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE!"

The aliens repeated the order for several seconds before the cacophony of their distorted, mechanical voices was drowned by echoes of powerful energy weapons discharging. Clock King was reduced to ash in less than a second. Then, each of the aliens’ third appendage began to cool.

"There," Susan said happily. "The Daleks were efficient about that. Of course, I knew they would be." She laughed and began the TARDIS’s return journey. "Now then, boys, Grandfather can take over as The Clock King without complication. Isn’t that good news?"

Having just watched Susan’s murderous plan carried out, the Second Hands could only agree.

"I knew you’d see things my way," she said delightedly. "Now, I want both of you to understand. The Clock King is to be obeyed instantly and without question. This will be explained to any of the other help we hire. I will be holding you both responsible for their good behavior. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what will happen if I am disappointed."

"No, Ma’am." They responded fearfully.

"Excellent. The new Clock King’s reign is about to begin without interference," Susan said smiling. "After all, in the end, there can be only one."

THE PRESENT:

"Please, send her up," the elderly man said in response to the doorman’s call.

Rhea had never set foot in the Hyde Towers. In fact, she felt a little out of place in Chelsea, Gotham City’s leading neighborhood for the well-to-do. Management at the residence apartments was zealous about guarding its clients’ identities. Amenities like the doorman and the location of the underground garage being known only to residents and employees had been put in place specifically to maintain each resident’s absolute privacy. Occupants of the building seldom, if ever, used the building’s main entrance, thus keeping their movements from being observed by prying eyes.

For the gentleman who had summoned Rhea, the lodging was ideal. He had worked hard to be invited to move in and took full advantage of management’s protection of his privacy. The gentleman’s detailed attention to security may have served Rhea better than she would have thought at first. Women like her didn’t normally call upon real gentlemen.

Rhea’s host answered his door himself, looking every bit the part of a gentleman as he ushered her inside. His Armani suit was meticulously pressed and the tie he wore was knotted into a double Windsor. The white show handkerchief in his pocket matched his coifed hair as well as his gleaming white shirt. "Good evening, my dear."

"Good evening, sir." She passed him, feeling his eyes on her.

"Yes. I think you’ll do," he said quietly.

"Given what you are paying, I would hope so," Rhea said evenly. It was probably not the smartest thing for her to say, but his comment had struck her as being rather rude.

His next question surprised her. "I understand you have a commercial driver’s license?"

"Yes, sir," she said, puzzled. "I did some driving professionally right after learning how. I’ve also done some work in the theater.”

"Acting?"

"Yes."

"Splendid. I have a uniform for you in here." He ushered her into a bedroom. "I think it will fit you well enough. I’ll leave you to change. Take your time."

"Perhaps he is a gentleman after all," she murmured. "That would be a nice change."

A chauffeur’s uniform hung on the back of the door. She took her time changing into the uniform, which fit almost perfectly. Once she was satisfied, she stretched out on the bed and displayed herself in an alluring position. She tried one or two more and decided she was ready for him. "Okay, you can come in whenever," she called.

"Would you step out here, please?" the old man asked through the door.

"You’re the boss," she said quietly, sliding to the floor and smoothing the skirt over her legs. "Could he not want to play dress up? What is going on?"

"Ah, there you are," the old man said happily as she emerged. "Turn around, please." She obeyed. "Wonderful. I think it fits well enough. How is it for you?’’

"It’s fine."

"Splendid. Come and sit. We’ll get down to business." She sat on the divan beside him. He got up and moved to the sideboard to refresh his drink. "Can I get you something?"

"A glass of white wine?"

"It would be a pleasure." He handed her a glass a moment later and took a chair opposite. She frowned at him. "Now then, I may owe you an apology. You see, after I explain myself, you may feel I’ve brought you here under false pretenses."

"Then, you don’t want me to show you a good time?" Rhea asked.

"Not in the way you probably imagine. First of all, do you know who I am?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

"Okay, who are you?"

"I am called Clock King."

"If you say so," she said absently. Rhea paused. "Wait a minute. You’re Clock King? You mean to say you are The Clock King?!"

"I am," the old man admitted. “The one and only.”

"I hope you’ll forgive my saying so," Rhea began, "but you don’t look like The Clock King. I’ve seen his picture in the papers."

"Ah," he said with a chuckle. "You imagine a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid-sixties; a little overweight, perhaps, with swept-back, graying hair; a dark, neatly-trimmed mustache; and jet black eyebrows set at thirty degree angles over each eye. These are somewhat reminiscent of caterpillars."

"Well," she said, “yes."

Rhea’s host chuckled. He was enjoying himself. "Let me show you something." the man said, producing a photograph of himself after a moment. He bent over it and spent a few minutes drawing on it with a grease pencil. When Rhea looked at the finished product, she inhaled. "Do you like it?"

"It’s amazing,” she said, a bit skeptically. “Clock King’s appearance was always——"

"A disguise, exactly," he chuckled, pleased with himself and continued after a short pause. "The charade seemed less relevant since the short stretch I spent in jail thanks to that Riddler fellow.” The evil Doctor, who was now The Clock King, looked off into the distance and said to himself, “I may have to settle the score with him some day.”

"You must have a good lawyer." She had forgotten Clock King had been part of the Nora Clavicle-engineered, Bane -financed mass escape a few years ago.

"My solicitor is excellent.” Clock King smirked. It amused him to think of Dr. Cassandra’s pills as his solicitor. Then his mood turned foul. “Unfortunately, the local idiot Susan engaged could not keep her from being tried as an adult. The situation is intolerable and we will do something about it tonight. If you are interested."

"You’re planning to bust your woman out of jail? Hey, you just implied she could be tried as a child! Still, with what you’re paying, who am I to say anything?" Rhea felt him staring coldly at her. "I’m sorry. I’m babbling."

"Susan is my granddaughter."

Rhea blushed. "Oh, god. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything. Now I really am babbling." She paused to catch her breath and recover her wits. Quickly she turned the conversation to business. "What do you want me to do?"

"Read this," Clock King said, handing her a folder. As Rhea read, Clock King refreshed their drinks.

"You aren’t asking for much, are you?"

"Will the one million dollars be enough for you to perform the script?"

"You’re going to give me all of it?"

"Why not? The money is but a means to achieve another end."

"Your plan could work. Okay. You’re sure we’ll have the money at the end of the day?"

"Of course, I am."

"Then for one million dollars, I’ll do it."

"Excellent!" Clock King said, holding up his glass. "Cheers." Rhea picked up her drink and they clinked. "I’ll serve dinner and you can run through the entire script for me."

"Why?"

"I want to see the performance once and I don’t want you to get arrested for drunk driving and ruin the plan." After they had eaten and Rhea had roleplayed through the script, Clock King announced, "I’ll have the car brought around and we’ll get started."

"Won’t I be driving?"

"Yes. Only Hyde Towers residents and employees know where the garage entrance is. The valet parking is to protect our privacy." He spoke on the phone for a moment. "Now then, come along, my dear." They left the apartment arm in arm.

Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Harriet Cooper was the recipient of bad news. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed. "Vandals destroyed Mr. Wayne’s theater box?"

"I’m afraid so, Ma’am," an apologetic clerk said gravely.

"Oh, dear, Alfred," Mrs. Cooper said to her companion, "whatever will we do?"

Before the intrepid butler could respond, the waiting theater patrons were treated to a performance perhaps more masterful than anything they had ever seen on stage. The gentleman in line behind Mrs. Cooper appeared far more likely to be the victim of a pickpocket than the perpetrator. Yet, as he stumbled into her, he extracted her coat check token from her pocket and handed it off to Rhea before anyone was the wiser.

"Oh my goodness, Madam. You must excuse me. I’m terribly sorry," he said, steadying himself.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"I’ll be quite all right, I assure you."

"Well, I’m glad things are working out for one of us."

"Why ever do you say that?"

"My box was vandalized this afternoon."

"Really?" While he appeared as surprised and dismayed as she, he was delighted those idiots he had sent to do the job had destroyed the correct box. "How awful!" He stroked his chin and brightened. "If you’d like, I’d be delighted to have you join me in my box to watch the play. My guest couldn’t make it and I’ve heard such good things about the performance."

Mrs. Cooper considered the offer for a moment. "Oh, I’d love to. You’re so kind, Mr.——"

"Walters. Doctor William Walters, at your service."

"Mrs. Harriet Cooper," she introduced herself. "I am delighted to meet you."

"Shall we take our seats?" he invited.

"Of course."

Meanwhile, Rhea retrieved Mrs. Cooper’s coat from the cloakroom and made her way to the limousine parked at the curb. Unknown to her, the transaction had been observed with interest by a white-haired Englishman who had discreetly withdrawn from Mrs. Cooper’s conversation at just the right moment to catch her.

"Excuse me, Madam, may I have a word with you?" Alfred said to the chauffeur as they approached her car.

"How can I help you, sir?" Rhea asked, consulting a pocket watch.

"I couldn’t help noticing you retrieve that coat from the cloak room. It looks very much like the one my employer brought here. I wondered if the attendant may have made a mistake."

"I don’t think so," Rhea said and dropped her watch. "Oh dear," she said, beginning to bend.

"Allow me," Alfred said.

Rhea opened the door to the back of the limousine as a cloud of knockout gas was released from the watch. It only took Rhea a moment to push her victim into the car. In less than a minute, she was on her way to Police Headquarters. Chief O’Hara was working late and grunted to acknowledge the man who set the package on his desk. "What’s this, then?"

"I don’t know, sir. It just arrived."

"We’d better have a look." He opened the package and the blood drained from his face. "Mother McCree! Call Commissioner Gordon and light the BatSignal!"

"Sir?"

"Move!" O’Hara ordered. He was already pulling up Batgirl’s email address and dialing the telephone at the same time.

At stately Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne himself picked up the phone. "Hello," he said.

"I need to speak to Mr. Bruce Wayne, please. This is Police Chief O’Hara."

"How can I help you, Chief O’Hara?"

"This is Bruce Wayne himself?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Wayne, I have some bad news. Clock King has kidnaped Mrs. Harriet Cooper. He wants one million dollars from you delivered to a location he will soon provide!"

Bruce fought to remain calm. This was far from the first time his family had been targeted by Gotham’s arch-criminals. "Have you notified Batman?"

""I’ve lit the BatSignal. I’m contacting Batgirl now more directly. Clock King wants her to deliver the money."

"Very well. I’ll be at Headquarters as soon as I can with the money."

"That will be most helpful, Mr. Wayne."

"I will do anything to protect my ward’s aunt.”

Barbara Gordon was sitting across from her father at a restaurant. "Daddy, isn’t that the BatSignal?"

Commissioner Gordon turned and glanced out the window behind him. "Yes, it is! Listen, Pumpkin, I’m sorry to cut dinner short, but I should probably be on hand, if the Dynamic Duo are needed."

"I understand, Daddy," Barbara said, keeping the excitement welling within her in check. "I’ll have the food packed up to go. We’ll finish it at my place another time."

"Okay, Honey. Thanks for being so understanding." Commissioner Gordon left folding money on the table as she signaled the waitress.

Barbara waited the eternity while her father departed before leaving herself. She made her way quickly to her Midtown apartment and turned on her computer while she moved to the bedroom and through her spinning wall. Once she had undergone her tantalizing transformation, she read her email, shut down her system and hurried to her secret freight elevator where the Batgirl cycle awaited.

"Thank goodness you’re here, Batgirl!" Commissioner Gordon said as she swept into her father’s office.

"I came as soon as I could, Commissioner."

"Sure and we’re glad you did, Batgirl. That time tyrant, Clock King, has kidnaped Mrs. Harriet Cooper. He wants you to deliver one million dollars to a location he will provide presently."

"He’s given us evidence he really has Mrs. Cooper?" Batgirl inquired.

"This is her coat," Commissioner Gordon said, indicating the garment. "Bruce Wayne will be able to identify it when he arrives with the ransom."

"Indeed, I can," the multimillionaire said, stepping into the office.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, Bruce," Commissioner Gordon said.

"Begorra," Chief O’Hara agreed.

"You know Batgirl, of course," the Commissioner said, gesturing at the Curvy Crimefighter.

"It’s always a pleasure, Batgirl," Bruce Wayne said. "Even under such dire circumstances."

"Likewise, Mr. Wayne. Is there anything you can tell from Mrs. Cooper’s coat that might not be apparent to the rest of us?"

Bruce Wayne looked at the coat carefully. "I fear I can contribute little, save this money. Have you heard from my butler, Alfred? He was driving Mrs. Cooper this evening."

Batgirl’s breath caught in her throat. She liked Mrs. Cooper, but Alfred was her confidant. The Commissioner said, "I’m sorry. We haven’t heard anything from or about him, Bruce."

"You don’t think——"

"It’s impossible to say with certainty, Chief," said the Commissioner.

"At this stage, it makes little sense for Clock King to harm his hostages," Batgirl offered.

"I hope you’re right, Batgirl," Bruce Wayne said. "The question is, for how long will the hostages remain safe?"

"You what?" Clock King demanded.

"His name is Alfred Pennyworth. I grabbed him because he started questioning me after I took Mrs. Cooper’s coat."

"I see. Use the secondary timetable for contacting Batgirl. Before you do, I want you to secure Mr. Pennyworth at Batgirl’s final destination. Make the first call from there and let Batgirl speak to him. That will prove to her that we are serious." He issued a few other instructions before concluding. "Now, I have to get back to Mrs. Cooper. The intermission is ending."

"Whatever you say, boss," Rhea said and clicked off her cell phone.

"Well, Alfred, old boy, it looks like I’ll be taking you for a ride after all," Rhea said to her prisoner. "Too bad really. I think you’re cute, in a kind of retro way. Oh well." As Rhea pulled the car away from the curb with a delighted chuckle, her unconscious captive could do nothing.

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