She was his mother.
"Well, I'd better get back to the picnic." Dreamer bobbed her head toward a set of tables arranged on the fringe of the sunny, pink park. A portly gray-haired woman was setting up Tupperware containers on one of the tables, helped by two little boys. Reacher guessed the woman was his grandmother, and the two boys were his brother, Planter, and cousin Lifter.
Reacher's heart raced. He wanted to keep talking to his mother for days. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to ask her a lifetime of questions. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and cry tears of joy on her shoulder.
But she hadn't invited him to join her at the picnic.
"How old is little Reacher there?" he asked, trying to prolong the conversation.
"Ten months and ten days." Dreamer smiled at her baby and swung him around for another look.
"He sure looks like a happy baby."
"He's had a sweet disposition from the start," she said. "Just like his father, I always say."
Remembering Daddy Naysayer, the overbearing tyrant who had raised him, Reacher thought she couldn't be serious. "His father?"
A sad look clouded her bright green eyes. "He was a wonderful man," she said softly. "He died in the war."
Reacher felt as if someone had slugged him in the stomach with a brick. It took all his willpower not to let his casual façade fall away and reveal an expression of eye-popping, jaw-dropping shock.
He swallowed hard and clenched his fists to control his emotions. "He ... died?"
Dreamer's gleaming red hair fell forward as she nodded.
"I'm so sorry," Reacher said quietly. "That's terrible."
Baby Reacher blinked at him with a look of bewilderment. He pumped his chubby arms and squirmed with increased agitation.
Reacher's heart pounded like a fist against a door. "What was his name?"
"Purpose." Dreamer looked at the ground as she spoke. "Purpose Mirage."
Reacher rubbed his scalp and cleared his throat. He was having more trouble keeping his cool with each passing moment.
Apparently his father wasn't the man he'd always thought he was. Where, then, did Daddy Naysayer fit into the picture?
"It must be hard for you," he said softly. "Do you have help, at least?"
She looked up, tucking her red hair behind her right ear. "My mother." She nodded toward the gray-haired woman at the picnic table. "And my stepfather."
"What's his name, if you don't mind my asking?"
Dreamer's eyes narrowed the slightest bit, as if the questions were making her suspicious. "Hark Naysayer. And what did you say your last name was, Donny?"
Reacher felt dizzy. He would have sat down if there had been anywhere else to sit but the ground.
"Basquette." His voice sounded a million miles away. All he could think about was what his mother had just told him.
In the space of five minutes, the fundamental facts of his life had completely changed. He'd always thought Daddy Naysayer was his father. Daddy Naysayer had always treated him with contempt and told him he was worthless and stupid and doomed to failure. Since these opinions had come from his supposed father, Reacher had taken them to heart.
Now he knew that Daddy Naysayer had not been his father at all. His father, it turns out, was a wonderful man named Purpose, a man with a sweet disposition, a man who had died in the war.
A man he'd never met.
After his mother and grandmother had died when he was young, Reacher had been brought up by Daddy Naysayer. His entire life had been shaped by that twisted, slave-driving bully. His own brother had been thoroughly warped and turned against him.
And all along, as the fear and self-hatred had wormed their way into Reacher's soul, he'd unknowingly possessed the weapon to eradicate them. All along, he'd secretly possessed the father's love he had craved.
Now that he knew it, he could let go of even more of the fear that had held him back for so many years.
"Mr. Basquette?" Dreamer stared at Reacher with a funny look on her face. "Are you sure you're all right?"
He rubbed his temples. He was feeling dizzy again all of a sudden. "Maybe I need to sit down after all. Would you mind if I sat at your table over there?"
Dreamer shook her head. "That's fine. I'll fix you an iced tea."
She walked off toward the table and Reacher fell in step behind her. He was thrilled to have the chance to ask more questions ... and just to be able to spend time with his mother.
Then his right foot turned into a rolling sphere the size of a bowling ball. His left foot turned into four identical feet fanning out from the base of his leg.
***
Reacher was back in Johnny Without's body, his bowling shirt and jeans replaced by Johnny's gold breastplate and brown leather leggings.
Dreamer and the baby were gone.
In their place, five crimson-armored warriors stomped around him in a circle, swords pointing up at the blazing orange sky.
As he shook off the shock of the sudden change in scenery, the warriors stopped circling and swung down their swords to point at him. Then, with a guttural battle cry, they charged toward him all at once.
Which was when he heard a familiar voice in his ear.
"Quickly!" shouted Scrier/Eurydice, hovering alongside him. "Fight your way past them and don't stop running. You're almost there. You've almost reached Idea!"
IDEA sat cross-legged on the surface of the asteroid, watching the gauge on the wrist of his space suit. The needle flicked from the green zone into the red, indicating that the oxygen in his tanks was more than half gone.
For all intents and purposes, the gauge was a timer counting down the minutes until his death. When the oxygen ran out, he would die.
The asteroid rolled in its orbit, and the gray and black bulk of the mining ship High Ground came into view. As she glided off toward another asteroid, he tipped his head back and saw the distant yellow disk of the sun. He raised his fist and shook it as if the sun were to blame for his misfortune.
"I hate you!" he said, and then he hesitated because he didn't recognize his voice. It had become a 173-year-old man's voice, raspy and cracking and rough. He couldn't see what he looked like, but he guessed that, like his voice, he'd been physically transformed.
"I do hate you!" He knew he was using up his oxygen faster by shouting, but he didn't care. "You're a real jerk, you know that?"
The only answer was the faint hiss of the oxygen injectors in his helmet.
"You suck!" he continued. "Putting me through all this crap ... for what? So you can get your rocks off?"
His anger built and boiled within him. He got to his feet and threw a rock in the sun's direction. As soon as he did it, sharp pain shot up his wrist and into his shoulder.... Arthritis, maybe?
He shrugged it off. "Well, screw you! I'm sick of being manipulated. And as for this dumb death-in-space scene... up yours! "
Idea had finally had enough. He'd been running scared for too long, afraid he was trapped in a book with an unhappy ending. Afraid of a malevolent author who twisted his every thought and word and action.
But now he felt more angry than afraid. He was sick of being knocked around, tired of running away instead of fighting back.
Visiting the author's office had taken away some of his fear. He'd realized the author was just a guy instead of a terrifying unknown force. He wasn't a god.
Maybe he wasn't as powerful as Idea had imagined. Maybe Idea could still take control of his own story.
Maybe all he needed was a good plot twist.
"Your story stinks! It needs a rewrite!" He began fumbling with the helmet of his suit, trying to break the seals and twist it off. "Now, send me somewhere I want to be! I know you don't want me to take this off and die!"
The only answer he got was the hiss of the oxygen.
Grunting, he wrenched at the helmet, but it wouldn't turn. He had trouble working with the bulky gloves, and there was the added impediment of the arthritis pai
n in his hands.
Finally, though, he found what felt like a catch, a switch near the base of his throat. "Last chance! Get me out of here now!"
No answer.
Idea hesitated. There might be no coming back from what he was about to do. If the author refused to let him control the story, he might be killing himself for real.
But even if he did, would it be worse than letting some guy at a keyboard continue to run his life? Would Idea rather go on being somebody's puppet, or take control of his own existence?
He popped the catch. The seal broke with a soft hiss, and he lifted off his helmet.
Immediately, he felt a great pressure surging from within, as if he were about to explode in all directions. All around him, the distant stars winked with cold white light in the unforgiving void.
REACHER exploded into thousands of droplets, which squirted through the eyeholes and breathing vents in the crimson knights' armor, blinding them and cutting off their air supplies. With much grunting and clatter, they dropped to the ground, writhing and prying at their helmets.
When they were all unconscious, Reacher's droplets spurted back out and recombined to form his body.
He didn't get much time to savor his victory, though. He'd been standing over his defeated foes for only a moment when Scrier/Eurydice dropped down in front of him.
"Run!" she said. "You're almost through the Gauntlet!"
"Okay, okay," he said, irritated that he'd been yanked out of a dream-come-true visit with his long-lost mother and tossed back into this violent realm. "How much farther did you say it is?"
"Just run! Both of you are almost out of time!"
Reacher turned from the five unconscious knights and ran in the direction she was pointing. He took four steps before everything around him changed.
***
Without warning, he was back in a tuxedo in front of Your Favorites in the Swing Room. He stumbled to a stop, and a spotlight caught him in its glare.
"Back by popular demand!" said Donny Basquette, sweeping an arm in his direction. "Ladies and gentlemen, your favorite, Richie Mirage!"
The audience applauded as the band roared into the intro for "Tangerine." Reacher stepped forward and bumped into the microphone with an amplified thump, nearly knocking it over.
Just then, a black-haired woman at a table in the back jumped up, cupped her hands around her mouth, and hollered over the music and applause. "This way! Keep running!"
Reacher recognized the voice right away. Shading his eyes against the spotlight, he recognized her face, too.
He turned to Donny Basquette and shrugged apologetically. "Gotta see a man about a horse," he said, and then he leaped off the stage and darted through the audience.
The band kept playing as he ran. On his way through the staggered tiers of tables, he saw Scrier/Eurydice waving him on from her spot at the back of the room.
She pointed at the exit, and Reacher ducked through it. "Go! Go!" she urged as he passed. "Don't stop for anything!"
The next thing he knew, he was careening across a stage to the sound of pounding drums and screaming guitars.
GASPING for breath, Idea opened his eyes just in time to see two spearheads plunging toward his chest.
He was alive and off the asteroid! He'd forced the author to change his story!
Unfortunately, he'd also ended up back in Fireskull's body, sprawled on the ground, about to be killed. So the author might get the last laugh, after all.
Idea flung himself to one side just as the spears closed in. As he did so, he bowled over one of the two crimson knights trying to kill him. The knight toppled over backward, dropping his weapon and crashing down with a resounding clang.
Before the other knight could take a stab at him, Idea belched a gout of flame in his direction, super-heating his armor and sending him reeling.
Idea scrambled to his feet and scanned the surrounding forest. The last thing he remembered from his time as Fireskull was being shot down by spears and arrows. If he was picking up anywhere near where he'd left off, he anticipated more attacks in the immediate future.
Sure enough, he heard the crackling of multiple footsteps running through the underbrush. Zeroing in on the noise, he saw three more crimson knights hurrying toward him with swords held high.
At that moment, an arrow whizzed past him and impaled a tree just a few feet away. His first thought was to take to the air, but when he tried to unfurl Fireskull's wings, bolts of agony lanced through his body.
Apparently the sky was off-limits to him for now. The wounds to his wings were too severe.
Not everyone was grounded like he was, however. Just as he drew his wings back in, Scrier/Eunice dropped from above, her face less than a foot from his own and upside down. Her appearance was so sudden and close that she made him jump.
"Run!" she said, her blond hair streaming all around like ribbons underwater. "You're almost through the Gauntlet. Reacher is not far, but you must hurry!"
"That'd be great"—Idea pointed toward the onrushing knights—"except I've got a few obstacles heading my way, in case you haven't noticed." Just then, another arrow flashed by, and another.
"Do not let them hold you back," Scrier/Eunice urged. "There is barely enough time as it is."
"Easy for you to say."
"You must work together," she said. "You must unite. Now run! I told you not to stop!"
As Scrier/Eunice drifted up and away from him, Idea watched the knights approach and considered the situation. Now that he'd taken a stand against the author, he didn't want to let anyone else control him. Yet he'd always trusted Eunice; she hadn't steered him wrong before.
He decided to continue to follow her lead. Squaring his shoulders, he took his first steps toward the approaching knights. From a walk, he moved up to a jog, then broke into a run.
The crimson knights charged toward him, howling battle cries and swinging swords. Idea ran faster, belching out blasts of scalding flame.
They crashed together in a blaze of fire and clashing metal. Swords and spears clanged against armor in a blur of rage and brutality. The air filled with sparks and blood and shrapnel.
Idea fought with impassioned fury, determined to seize control of the battle, just as he'd turned the tide on the asteroid. He spun and kicked and breathed fire, driving off his opponents in short order.
In that moment, he felt like he could do anything. He felt like he had taken control of his life and would never give it up again.
The author could throw any challenge his way and Idea would conquer it. He would add his own twist to the plot and rewrite the outcome to suit him. Deity Syndrome would no longer keep him on the run, afraid that he had no control over his story.
As for Chapter 64, and the omens of his death? Bring 'em on! The love of his parents in the alternate reality hospital had empowered him. The triumph in rewriting his destiny on the asteroid had given him the confidence he'd needed. He felt like nothing could hold him back ever again.
Nothing except the two dozen crimson knights who suddenly stepped out of the forest.
"Your presence is required," said one of the knights. "We have come to escort you."
Idea lowered his sword. So he wasn't completely in control, after all. "Where to, exactly?"
"To an audience with the Dread Lord of this and all lands," said the knight. "Our master, and yours now, too. He will be the judge of your fate, Fireskull."
"That's nice." Idea sighed, releasing a jet of flame. "What's his name again, did you say?"
"The Secret King."
AS soon as he hit the stage and heard the lead guitar screaming and the bass guitar booming and the drums thundering in a particular crescendo, Reacher knew he was just in time for the big finale of Singularity City.
The crowd in the giant concert hall roared as he crossed the stage. Gaping at the audience, he slowed his run to a jog, then a walk—which was a good thing, because Wicked Livenbladder leaped up to block his path.
&n
bsp; The crescendo reached its peak and suddenly cut to silence. Reacher knew it was the exact instant when he was supposed to sing again, reprising the main theme, "Coming to Life."
It was a moment meant to illustrate Impulse Devilcare's final triumph over the world that tries to crush his spirit. It was supposed to be the emotional high point of the rock opera, with Impulse starting softly and building with the band to a surge of jubilant power.
The weight of the entire show rested on this moment. Looking offstage, Reacher spotted Scrier/Eurydice in the wings, motioning for him to get moving, to come toward her. Instead, he let his gaze roam the stage, fixing on each member of the band in turn: hairy Wicked; bald, scarred Chick; redheaded fireball Gail. All of them wore identical expressions—wide-eyed, switched-on, waiting.
Hopeful.
He knew the right thing to do was to keep running, but he stood his ground and took a deep breath. He couldn't let this moment pass without tasting it.
Closing his eyes, he began to sing.
"Come to life,
your life will come.
Come to life
and touch the sun."
As the pitch of Reacher's voice rose, Wicked began to strum his guitar softly.
"Come to stay,
we'll make our way.
Come to see,
and be with me."
His voice continued to rise, and the guitar slowly climbed along with it.
Gentle as a heartbeat, Chick's bass joined in, pulsing under both of them.
"D-don't you know that two two heads are better..."
Gail jumped in, skimming a light rhythm just under the surface, adding heat to the slow build.
"... better... better..."
Everyone stopped and held for exactly one beat, then crashed down with a single huge chord.
My Favorite Band Does Not Exist Page 19
