6 Fantasy Stories

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  “Who’s he?” said Hericane, her eyes glued to the new arrival as he cleared the disk.

  “A new recruit,” said Mardi. “Courtesy of Overtime’s latest time-chute. He’s a real Epitome expert, you might say.”

  Hericane continued to stare at the long-haired newcomer...and then, suddenly, her attention was snatched away by a familiar blaze of pain in her side. Even as she realized what it was, she knew that there would be worse to come.

  When “dagger eyes” struck, she knew that her father would not be far behind.

  Sure enough, just as Hericane tried to twist away from the painful beam, Epitome flashed up from below and snatched her from Mardi’s arms like a football. On his way past, Epitome cuffed Mardi on the side of the head, sending her spinning away toward the ground.

  As Epitome clasped Hericane against the hard metal of his breastplate and carried her off, she hauled back one fist and hammered it into his jaw with all her strength. Epitome responded with a head butt that knocked Hericane senseless.

  As Hericane struggled to regain control of herself, he raised her high overhead. He looked as if he were ready to hurl her to the ground below.

  “I won’t let you kill me!” he said, visibly shaking. “I won’t let it happen again!”

  Then, just as suddenly as Epitome had snatched her from Mardi, someone grabbed Hericane from Epitome.

  It was the newcomer who had followed Overtime through the chute. He flashed Hericane a blinding smile as he swept her away from her father.

  Though Hericane had thought that he had looked handsome from a distance, she decided that he looked stunning up close. The smile, the bright green eyes, the creamy skin, the golden hair...all of it mingled in artful perfection, as impossibly ideal as a retouched photo or a painting.

  He turned to her, and she was lost in his gaze. She was held firmly by his intense personal magnetism...and something else. Only after he had set her down on the roof of a factory where Mardi was waiting did she know what it was.

  Familiarity.

  The man leaped away before Hericane could say a word to him. He headed straight for Epitome, who hovered some distance away with a frown of deep confusion on his face.

  “I know him from somewhere, don’t I?” said Hericane.

  “You might say that,” said Mardi Gras.

  At that moment, Hericane heard the familiar screech of her father’s powers in action...and everything fell together. Her eyes widened and a chill raced up her spine as she figured out who the long-haired man really was.

  Because her seventy-two-year-old father was not the one using his powers at that moment.

  But the long-haired newcomer was.

  “Oh my God,” Hericane said in a hushed voice. “It’s him.”

  Mardi Gras put a hand on Hericane’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Yeah, it is,” she said. “We figured it was the only way.”

  “My father’s younger self,” said Hericane. “Overtime brought him from the past.”

  Mardi nodded solemnly. “He’s the only one powerful enough to stop Epitome.”

  The sky flared as the young Epitome blasted his older counterpart with a bolt of electro-breath. The old man fell back fast, then caught himself and pressed forward against the crackling stream of energy.

  The confused look was gone from his face, replaced by grim determination. “How many times have I put you down today,” he snarled, “and you just keep coming back for more.”

  Young Epitome cut off his electro-breath to answer. “This is the first time we’ve met,” he said. “You don’t remember because you’re sick.”

  When she heard this exchange, Hericane understood another of the day’s mysteries for the first time. Throughout Epitome’s attacks, she had wondered why he had thought she was him...and further, why he was trying to kill her if he believed that she was him.

  Now, she knew.

  “He never kept pictures around the house,” she said. “I never knew he looked so much like me when he was young.”

  “He sure did,” said Mardi.

  Hericane nodded slowly. “When he came after me, he didn’t think I was him as he is today,” she said. “He thought I was him from years ago. He remembered coming forward in time as a young man to fight himself as an old man.”

  “He knew this would happen all along,” said Mardi, “but he ended up making it happen. By attacking us to try to head it off, he forced us to get help from the only person who could stop him.”

  “Himself,” said Hericane.

  As she and Mardi watched, old Epitome drove a fist at young Epitome’s stomach, then another at his chin. Both blows glanced off seemingly without impact, as young Epitome hovered calmly in place without so much as a wince.

  The next time that old Epitome took a swing, young Epitome caught his fist with one hand and held it effortlessly in place.

  “Listen to me,” said young Epitome. “You are sick. You need help. Let me help you.”

  Old Epitome struggled against his young counterpart’s grip, working to free his captured hand. “You’re a liar,” he said. “You won’t help me. I remember how this all ends.”

  “You have Alzheimer’s disease,” said young Epitome. “You don’t know what you remember anymore.”

  “I remember!” said old Epitome, still straining to wrench his hand free.

  Without a twitch of effort, young Epitome steadily pushed his older self’s fist away from him. “You almost killed your own daughter because you thought she was me!” he said. “Still think you’re in your right mind?”

  For an instant, old Epitome looked down at Hericane and Mardi on the factory rooftop. Even from a distance, Hericane thought that she glimpsed a flicker of clarity in his eyes.

  Then, it was gone, if it had ever truly been there. Old Epitome started to glow with an aura of hazy, golden light.

  “No!” shouted Hericane, launching herself off the rooftop toward the action. “Don’t do it, Dad!”

  She knew exactly what that golden aura meant.

  Old Epitome was not going to surrender. Instead, he was pulling out all the stops.

  He was going into the Bonus Round.

  So was young Epitome. With his older self activating a rapidly changing sequence of unpredictable powers, what else could he do?

  For a moment, the young and old Epitomes hung in the sky, their combined auras swelling and brightening. Then, the auras shifted from gold to red, and the men exploded away from each other.

  They charged back together immediately, each glowing with a different light and surging with a different power as the Bonus Round fully engulfed them.

  Hericane intended to hurl herself between them and cut the battle short, but Overtime rocketed up to block her path. When Hericane tried to swerve around him, he grabbed hold of her and froze her in place with the Pause Inducer mounted in his gauntlet.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “That’s a fight you don’t want to be in the middle of.”

  Hericane wanted to correct him, tell him that she had to try to save her father, but she was on pause and could not speak. All that she could do was watch helplessly as the young and old manifestations of her father battered each other with a stream of destructive powers.

  Both Epitomes changed powers in the blink of an eye, switching from one to the next every few seconds. It was a dizzying whirl of fire and ice and cyclones and explosions and body parts that multiplied and distended and vibrated faster than the eye could see. Even Hericane, who knew her father’s abilities well, did not recognize some of the transformations and emissions on display in the heart of the duel.

  One man grew to five times his original size, and the other man shot purple rays from his fingertips. Clouds of scalding steam hissed out of one man’s nose, while the other man split into a dozen razor-sharp slices.

  While Hericane watched, the two Epitomes flashed from nightmare vision to ink blot blasts, from plague breath to laser fists to slave rays to spike skin. Young Epitome�
�s limbs disappeared, then punched back in from another dimension, glowing orange and seemingly detached from their owner, to pummel old Epitome from different directions. Old Epitome turned into a sheet of malleable golden metal and wrapped around young Epitome’s head, sealing it in a sphere without a single opening.

  Young Epitome thrashed in the air, pulling at the sphere, trying unsuccessfully to wedge his fingers between the golden skin and his throat. His body turned to rock, then steel, then ice, but he could not break open the sphere from within. He expanded and shrunk and stretched, but the sphere changed size and shape along with him.

  Young Epitome wrestled with the smothering helmet for one more moment. Then, he stopped fighting it.

  And became a blinding ball of energy like a new sun flaring to life in the sky.

  Because Hericane was on pause and could not blink or shield her eyes, Overtime threw a hand over them to block the burst of light. When Overtime pulled his hand away, Hericane saw a single figure hovering in the sky, silhouetted against a pulsing rainbow nimbus.

  For an instant, Hericane thought it was the seventy-two-year-old version of Epitome, because his hair was little more than stubble, and his costume was red with a gold breastplate instead of red and white fabric.

  But as the halo faded, and the man drifted toward her, she saw that he was not the old man after all. He was not quite the same young man who had come from the past, either.

  For one thing, the blinding smile was gone. “I’m so sorry,” he said grimly, looking lost. He stared down at his costume, brushing it with his fingertips.

  Hericane felt sick. She had always wondered how the impenetrable golden breastplate of her father’s costume had been created, with its unearthly properties and unique, pebbled texture. It must have been forged in the heart of a volcano or a star, she had thought, or in another dimension where the laws of physics were different from those she knew. How else could an indestructible metal be shaped into body armor for a super hero?

  Now, she knew. In addition to burning his long hair down to stubble, Young Epitome’s nova blast had liquefied the metal sphere that had nearly smothered him. The metal had oozed down over his chest and adhered to his costume.

  For fifty-odd years, Hericane’s father had worn a costume sheathed in his own remains.

  “Sorry,” said young Epitome. The confusion on his face shifted to horror. Tears rolled out of both eyes. He drifted close to Hericane as if he knew her, as if she could help or reassure him in some way.

  Hericane felt a mild zap like static electricity as Overtime took her off pause mode. Her body jerked as she regained the power of movement in her native time frame.

  Even when she was able to move and speak again, however, she did not know what to say to young Epitome.

  He continued to hover in front of her, alternately meeting her gaze and staring down at his newly minted breastplate. His expression shifted quickly, like super-powers in the Bonus Round, switching from anguish to disbelief to horrified rage to blank shock...though the overriding visible emotion was deep confusion.

  “I think I owe you an apology,” he said slowly, returning his gaze to Hericane. “I’m sorry for killing your father.” He said it like a question, raising his voice on the last syllables.

  “I only wanted to help him,” said Epitome. His eyes narrowed and shunted to one side, staring into space. “I wanted to stop him from hurting people...but God knows I didn’t want this to happen.”

  Tears rolled down his face, and his shoulders shuddered. He hung his head, then caught sight of the breastplate and quickly looked up again.

  Hericane drifted forward and took him in her arms. She stroked the stubble on his scalp as he sobbed silently into her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry he hurt you,” said the man who was or had been or would be her father, trembling against her. He was younger now than she was, and she did not know him though she had known him all her life, and it was almost too strange for her to bear.

  At that moment, Overtime bobbed into view behind Epitome and pointed to one of the fifty watches strapped onto his right arm. Then, he turned and waved at the rainbow disk of a newly opened time chute spinning in midair behind him.

  ‘Time’s up,’ he signaled. ‘Time to send him back.’

  Hericane shook her head and held on to her father.

  “How can I live with this?” said Epitome. “Knowing I did this to myself? Knowing this is what’s in store for me?”

  “Don’t close yourself off,” whispered Hericane, giving him the only advice that she could think of...the advice that she had wanted to give him for decades. “Don’t be afraid to reach out to other people. Maybe things will be different for you next time.”

  Overtime tapped Epitome on the shoulder then, and he drew back from Hericane. “I don’t know if I can take that chance,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

  He reached out then and ran his fingertips softly down the curve of Hericane’s cheek. She had never known that he could be so gentle. His eyes widened and sparkled as he gazed at her wonderingly.

  She felt tears of her own begin to fall.

  Finally, she understood why he had pushed her away all her life. Not because of her sexuality. Not because he did not love her.

  He had pushed her away because he had wanted to protect her from himself.

  “I love you, Dad,” said Hericane, her voice catching. It was the last time in her life that she would say those words to Epitome...though, from his point of view, it was the first time that she said them to him.

  Then, Overtime took young Epitome by the hand and guided him into the swirling disk of the time chute.

  Hericane should not have been happy, she thought, because, after all, she had lost her father that day. He had died right before her eyes.

  And yet, her heart was full and her tears were tears of joy, for just before Epitome slid headfirst into the chute, he looked back over his shoulder and said the one thing that she had never heard him say to her before.

  “I love you, too,” he said. And then he was gone.

  *****

  Blazing Bodices

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  When the woman who was not a woman burst into our evening, we were just setting up some balls for the breaking.

  Shortly after Miss Patel had finished her story of the Emerald Guardians, I and several members of the Wanderers' Club retired to the billiards room. After all the idle chit chat, we felt the need for action. After all, we call ourselves Wanderers, not Gossipers, do we not?

  Just as Mr. Asteroth-Phipps was drawing back his stick to break the first rack of balls, the heavy oak door of the billiard room flew open. As the door slammed home against the oak paneling of the wall, the five of us in the room looked toward the noise all at once.

  My first impression was of a statuesque woman standing in the doorway, two or three inches taller than six feet. A black overcoat encompassed the upper reaches of her frame, occluding many details of her figure. The rest were hidden by the vast bell of the royal blue skirt of her dress, fanned out over its frame of whalebone hoops.

  Her blonde hair, instead of being worn up and properly pinned, lay in a tangled fall upon her shoulders and back. Her hair looked wild, as did her eyes; her long, oval face was glossy with sweat.

  A statuesque woman in distress; this was my first impression. Had she been accosted on the street and sought shelter in our club? Was she the victim of a medical emergency, in need of urgent care?

  Whatever her business, it didn't take long for us to offer our assistance. The five of us moved forward more or less at the same time. I would expect no less from such a gathering of men of action.

  "Madame." I spoke first, bowing my head briefly as I stepped toward her. "I am Captain Buckingham Thrice of Her Majesty's Royal Marines, Occult Brigade. These good fellows and I stand ready to assist in any way possible. How may we be of service?"

  It
was then, just before she spoke, that I realized the truth of the situation. Raising my head, I suddenly got a closer look at the woman. My steps had carried me to to within ten feet of her, enabling me to make out more details of her appearance.

  At which point, my heart skipped a beat. I stopped walking toward her and gaped, unable to look away.

  Because there on her cheeks and chin and throat was the unmistakable roughness of stubble.

  My colleagues stopped approaching her at the same moment, also gaping at her unexpected appearance. Was she some kind of bearded woman, then, straight from a carnival midway?

  Not if her voice was any indication.

  "Thank God, thank God!" Her voice was deeper than I'd expected, deeper than the voice of a typical woman. "I'm finally safe!" It sounded deep enough to be something not at all womanly, in fact.

  At that moment, the biggest surprise of all kicked in, leaving me reeling. For it was then that I realized this was not a woman at all, and not just a man, either.

  This was someone I knew.

  The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. "Algernon? Is it you?" Even as I spoke, I wished I could call back what I'd said. I thought it sounded utterly insane.

  To my absolute surprise and horror, the person in the doorway did not laugh at me. Did not scowl at the offense or look down in humiliation.

  Instead, one black-gloved hand flew upward, took hold of the gleaming fall of blonde hair, and tugged. The entirety of those golden locks came away all at once, revealing a scalp studded with silvery stubble.

  The scalp of a man in woman's clothing.

  "Can we waste no further time on ridiculous guessing games?" He souded incensed as he heaved the blonde wig to the floor. "We have a most dire business to conduct!"

  "Sir Hogshead?" Doctor Yarrow sounded positively apoplectic. "Sir Algernon Hogshead? One of the charter members of our very own Wanderers' Club?"

  Mr. Asteroth-Phipps sounded a good deal more amused. "Have you come from a masquerade ball of some sort? Or is this simply a typical night out for you, sir?"