My Favorite Band Does Not Exist

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  The swords lunged toward Idea. He only managed to stop them when his hands were at his shoulders.

  "Ha!" said Sweat. "I've cut into you!"

  Idea felt no pain, but he suspected Sweat was telling the truth. From the position of his hands, which were gripping his sword, he was pretty sure the edge of the blade had intersected the black leather collar at his throat.

  The absence of pain was a good sign, though. Given the fact that his head and neck were made of flame, he had a feeling that he would be fine and could still win this.

  He let the sword press a little more into his throat, then exhaled a puff of flame-breath in Sweat's face. It was strong enough to singe his hair and skin and send him stumbling backward.

  Idea followed up with a stiff kick to Sweat's chest, landing the colonel on the ground with a clatter of armor. When he tried to get back to his feet, Idea swung a black gauntleted fist against the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.

  Towering over the body of Colonel Sweat, Idea realized he had the power to kill him, and probably should. Killing Sweat would mean one less enemy to face in the future. Murdering someone in the pages of a novel wouldn't even be considered a crime, and it might be no more of a sin than gunning down computer-generated foes in a video game.

  Nevertheless, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He inhabited Fireskull's body, but his morals hadn't changed. If he could avoid killing, he would.

  There was a rustling sound behind him, and Idea turned, expecting to see an enemy soldier attacking. He saw Scrier/Eunice instead. She hovered two feet above the ground, blond hair and white gown rippling, although no breeze was blowing.

  "Others will pursue Reacher," she said, her voice rising amid the sound of rushing wind. "We must get to him without delay."

  Along the length of the gorge behind her, Idea saw the six armored warriors who had accompanied Colonel Sweat. They were all frozen in place, caught in battle poses with swords, maces, or bows raised.

  Idea pointed in their direction. "What did you do to them?"

  A small smile flitted across Scrier/Eunice's face. "I know you've seen human statues before."

  Idea stared at the frozen men a moment more, then returned his full attention to her. "Do you know where to find Reacher? Is he nearby?"

  She nodded. "I do have a connection to him. And he is not nearby. He is miles away, in the Kingdom of Without."

  "Which has also been conquered by the Secret King," said Idea.

  "Yes," she said. "It will be a dangerous journey, even if you fly."

  He sighed, emitting a jet of orange flame from his fiery mouth. "But working with Reacher is the only way I can get a chance to change my life."

  "Exactly. If you are going to meet with him, you must leave immediately. I cannot keep these men frozen indefinitely."

  Idea stared at her for a long moment, considering what she'd told him and what she'd meant to him in the world outside the novel. He felt removed from her now, and not just because he couldn't kiss her. She seemed different—colder and more self-contained. Although Idea wasn't changing his behavior to match his new body, Eunice seemed to become more like Scrier with each passing moment.

  "All right." He unfurled his leathery black wings to their full span. "Let's go."

  "Fly as fast as you can," she said. "Watch for attacks from below."

  With a flap of his wings, Idea rose from the ground. "Do you realize we've been on the run since the moment we met?"

  "We are near the end now."

  "The end of what?" he asked, still flapping, still rising. "Our lives?"

  "No." Scrier/Eunice's long blond hair fluttered as she climbed into the sky along with him. "The book."

  "HURRY," said Scrier/Eurydice, floating along-side Reacher through the forest. "You must get to him before the search parties find you." Her black tresses flowed across her face as if carried by a river current.

  "No kidding," Reacher said sarcastically. "I'm doing the best I can." He'd been jogging at a brisk pace through the forest until his left foot had turned into a block of stone five times its original size. Now jogging was out of the question; moving forward at all was a struggle.

  They'd been on the run since he had witnessed the Secret King's meeting with General Deathcrave. After the King and his minions had ridden away, Scrier/Eurydice had popped up and told Reacher that he had to get to Idea as quickly as he could.

  Ever since, she'd been driving him hard through the forests and fields, right up to the point of exhaustion. After all his Johnny Without body had been through that day, it was no wonder he felt ready to drop. Battling the forces of Fireskull and the Secret King, in addition to surviving sixteen execution attempts, was enough to wear out even a man with an indestructible crazy-quilt body.

  "How much farther?" Again he was startled by the bizarre sound of so many different voices coming out of his mouth, changing with every syllable.

  "It depends on how much closer Idea comes," said Scrier/Eurydice.

  "He's traveling, too?"

  "At the moment, he is headed in our direction."

  Reacher wasn't surprised that she seemed to know Idea's whereabouts and movements. She claimed to have a link to him, and Reacher believed her. It was much easier for him to believe that anything was possible, now that he'd been zapped into the world of a fantasy novel.

  "The faster you go, the sooner the two of you will meet," Scrier/Eurydice continued. "Depending on how much the Secret King's forces slow you down when they strike."

  "You mean if they strike?"

  "They will strike," she said. "Your speed right now will mean the difference between fighting a handful and fighting an army."

  Reacher stumbled to a halt as his legs turned into coiled springs. "I'll take the handful," he said, putting the springs to use by bounding forward in giant, bouncing leaps.

  ONE minute, Idea was flapping along through a clear orange sky, following Scrier/Eunice as she spiraled ahead in the distance. The next minute, a cloud of arrows lifted out of the writhing red treetops below, flashing straight toward him.

  He unleashed a blast of fiery breath, transforming many of the arrows into ash. The ones that got through whistled past him, narrowly missing his wings.

  Idea flapped faster, increasing his speed. The archers below revised their aim and sent up another cloud of arrows.

  He burned those, too, and kept speeding up. He heard more arrows launching behind him, but he was out of range. Safe for the moment.

  That was what he was thinking when the spear shot through his left wing.

  It came from below without warning, piercing the center of the wing. He howled, and the spear kept going, leaving behind a ragged, gaping hole.

  He hadn't thought Fireskull's body would be so vulnerable, but the hole had a disastrous effect. In addition to kicking up a storm of pain, it destabilized him, making his flight unsteady. When someone on the ground a little further on put an arrow through the other wing, it completely threw him off balance.

  He called out to Scrier/Eunice as he wobbled, fighting to stay aloft. She doubled back and flashed toward him, corkscrewing as fast as the spinning bit on a power drill.

  But when she reached him, she didn't try to stop his fall. "This isn't working," she said as she dropped down beside him. "You are still too afraid of being controlled by other people. You aren't ready to join with Reacher."

  "Help!" Idea reached for her, but she stayed just out of reach. "Can't you see I'm falling here?"

  "It is time for you to run the Gauntlet of Realities. That will better prepare you for the work ahead." She snapped the fingers of both hands.

  There was a blinding flash of light. Suddenly, Idea stopped falling.

  And found himself lying in bed.

  He blinked, realizing the blazing veil of Fireskull's vision was gone. Heart pounding, he looked around. He was in a bedroom, but not in any home he'd ever known.

  To one side, a beige curtain hung a few feet away, runnin
g the length of the bed. He heard someone cough behind it; in the dim light, he could only make out a vague silhouette of a man reclining in another bed.

  Turning, he saw a bunch of wilted flowers in a fluted plastic vase on a bedside table. Past the flowers, through a doorway, he saw women in multicolored hospital scrubs hurrying back and forth.

  Then he heard a familiar voice.

  "Do you need more pain meds?" It was a man's voice. "Here." He felt someone press a cylindrical object into his hand. "Just hit the button, remember?"

  Idea looked in the direction of the voice. He was shocked when he saw who was sitting there, and not just because it would be shocking to see anyone sitting there after being transported into a novel and back out again without warning.

  He was shocked because the man beside his bed was his father, Vengeful. Even more shocking was the fact that Vengeful was touching his hand gently and smiling with genuine warmth.

  "Use as much medicine as you need," he said. "Whatever it takes to kill the pain."

  Idea saw tears in Vengeful's eyes. He looked away, directing his gaze at Idea's legs under the sheet on the bed.

  It was only then that Idea realized he couldn't feel them.

  REACHER distinctly heard rock music in the background as the five crimson knights who encircled him all thrust the points of their swords at him at once.

  He realized he was about to die. His unpredictable Johnny Without body always picked moments like this to change to rubber or smoke or stone. But this time, his shape-shifting mode had inexplicably gone offline. In less than a heartbeat, the five swords would pierce his chest as if it were a wicker basket.

  He sucked in a breath, preparing to die. Before the knights could kill him, though, they went into ultra-slow motion.

  Then, Scrier/Eurydice's head dropped in front of him, upside down. "You're not ready, either. Still too weighed down with fear."

  He gaped at the swords as they crept toward him. "Maybe because so many people are trying to kill me?"

  "You need to run the Gauntlet of Realities. Once you've shed the extra baggage, you'll be ready to move on to the next phase with Idea." She snapped the fingers of both hands and was gone in a flash of light.

  ***

  At that instant, someone struck a guitar chord—D minor. Then another—an F—and another.

  If the crimson knights heard the music, they showed no sign of it. The swords continued to crawl inward, gleaming tips sliding toward his chest.

  Then, all of a sudden, all five swords swung up to point at the sky. The crimson-armored warriors stomped around him, footsteps hitting what sounded like hardwood instead of dirt.

  The guitar chords continued, coming more rapidly to match the rhythm of their armored boots.

  Looking down, Reacher saw that the ground had become a stage. Row after row of varnished, honey-gold boards had replaced the dusty earth. He also saw that his original non-shape-shifting body had replaced Johnny Without's. Instead of Johnny's gold breastplate, white tunic, and leather leggings, he was back in his green and white bowling shirt and blue jeans.

  Looking up, he saw that the sky had vanished, too. Instead of the bright orange vastness and single sun of Johnny Without's world, rows of bright white lights glared amid nightlike darkness.

  As the chords continued, Reacher suddenly recognized their arrangement. He knew exactly what had come before and what would come after them, for a very good reason.

  The chords were the intro of a song that he'd written.

  Even as he realized that he was listening to "Surrender-phobe," from his rock opera, Singularity City, the crimson knights stopped circling and lowered their swords. They remained bowed with sword tips touching the floorboards in a perfect ring, and Reacher got his first unobstructed look around the new environment into which he'd been flung.

  As his eyes adjusted to the cascade of light from above, he saw that he was indeed on a stage. Beyond its front edge, fanning outward and upward, an enormous audience stared back at him from the shadows of a great concert hall.

  Frozen, Reacher gaped at the sea of faces. It was the audience he'd always dreamed of, and dreaded—vast beyond belief, attentive, judgmental.

  Someone moved in front of him onstage, diverting his attention from the crowd. It was someone he knew well, playing guitar just a few feet away.

  "Hey!" whispered Wicked Livenbladder, in all his fierce, furry glory. "You're supposed to sing, remember?"

  Reacher shook his head to clear it.

  Wicked glared. "I'll play the last few bars again. This time, don't miss your cue!"

  Someone in the audience cleared his throat. Someone else laughed softly. Reacher's darkest nightmares were coming true, the ones in which he failed and fell apart in front of a giant unforgiving crowd.

  The ones that had made him keep Youforia secret for so long.

  His heart pounded and his stomach twisted. Wicked ducked away and took up the last bars of the intro once more.

  Reacher closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He dragged a hand slowly back over the rough white stubble on his scalp. He couldn't do it. He couldn't sing in front of all those people.

  He opened his eyes as Wicked hit the last note of the intro. He turned to walk offstage, to get away from yet another moment of failure.

  And everything around him changed again.

  Suddenly he was in some kind of old-fashioned nightclub. A huge sign in silver script on the far wall read Swing Room. Couples sat at candlelit tables on semicircular tiers facing him. Everyone smoked cigarettes and had a glass of wine or beer or a mixed drink in front of them.

  And every man and woman wore clothes and hairstyles straight out of the 1940s.

  Reacher himself wore a black tuxedo and bow tie. At a blast of horns that made him jump, he spun around and saw a big band behind him. The trumpet bells and trombone slides gleamed like solid gold as they pointed in his direction.

  Then he heard a voice and spun in the other direction.

  A man in a white tuxedo pointed a conductor's baton at him. He had a long thin face with a pencil mustache, enormous teeth, and a great, oily forelock.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" shouted the conductor. "Presenting the newest and greatest singing sensation of them all, here to perform the hit song 'Tangerine'! Soon to be your favorite, Richie Mirage!"

  Glancing down at the lettering on one of the music stands behind the conductor, Reacher knew who the man must be. Suddenly he remembered the poster in Dusty's Wigwam, the poster from long ago advertising the big band called Your Favorites.

  The bandleader on the poster had been identical to the man who'd just introduced him. There could be no doubt.

  The man with the forelock and mustache was the one and only Donny Basquette.

  ACCORDING to his father, Idea had been heavily medicated for three full days, flowing in and out of consciousness. Before that, while driving drunk at night, he had crashed into a utility pole, totaling his car.

  And leaving him paralyzed from the waist down.

  It was a terrible feeling, not being able to move so much of his body. He hated being at the mercy of other people for even the simplest of tasks ... being totally dependent on his parents, the very people whose control he'd struggled to escape in the life he remembered from his reality.

  But these versions of his parents were not identical to the ones he'd left behind. Amazingly, this Vengeful and Loving Deity actually seemed to care about his needs and want to spend time with him.

  His father watched TV with him and joked about the shows they saw. His mother brought him fresh ice water and Jell-O and fixed his pillow and straightened his bedclothes. Neither of them spoke in any but the most caring and reassuring way about the accident and its consequences.

  "Don't worry," said Vengeful. "We'll work things out."

  "Focus on getting better," said Loving. "One day at a time. Think about how lucky you are just to be alive."

  "We know how
lucky we are," Vengeful assured him, patting his folded hands. "We came very close to losing you forever."

  "We never want to come that close again," Loving added with tears in her eyes. "We love you so much, son."

  Idea couldn't help but get choked up when he heard such an outpouring of affection.

  "We want you to get well again." Loving gently pushed his hair up out of his eyes. "We want you to make the most of the gifts you've been given."

  "Gifts?" Idea tensed. In the nightmare of a reality that he knew best, his parents had constantly pressured him to use his "gifts."

  Loving smiled down at him. "Your sense of humor. Your creativity. Your kindness."

  Idea relaxed. "Oh."

  "You made a mistake," said Vengeful. "You'll have to live with it for the rest of your life, but maybe you can make the world a better place in some small way because of your experience."

  Idea's heart pounded, but it had nothing to do with Deity Syndrome. He was overcome with a feeling of love for the mother and father he'd never known before in quite this way.

  They were the parents he'd always wanted. They showered him with unconditional affection instead of trying to control him.

  Now that he saw how it could be, a great weight was lifted from his heart. All his life, he'd been pushed and driven by people with power over him. He'd been terrified that he'd never break free.

  He'd even come down with a syndrome that had grown from the same roots. He saw it clearly for the first time: his fear of being controlled by a malevolent author wasn't much different from his fear of being controlled by malevolent parents. Together, these fears had kept him on the run, always looking over his shoulder. Always afraid that his parents or an author would destroy him.

  Maybe it was time to stop feeling that way. Maybe it was time to let go of the fear.

  Idea reached out from the hospital bed, spreading his arms wide to embrace his parents. They moved closer, beaming with joy, and he wrapped his arms around them.