"What is a foreign policy?" asked Jack.
"If it's smaller than you and moves, squash it," said Mathilda promptly. "That's good enough for giants. All this human cleverness has caused such trouble. As if we need to compete with vermin. If we move down there, they'll infest everything in no time."
"What does the King need golden eggs for if the mountains here are made of it?"
"Gold?" laughed Mathilda. "You've been hearing a bit of Miss Harp's propaganda, there. Ask your parents when they last saw gold. Not bad enough giving my husband delusions of royalty," Mathilda sighed, flicking a lump of cheese at the quiescent harp, "she has to corrupt the young, too." Mathilda rose. "You wait here, lad, and I'll make us some tea to wash this down."
Mathilda left.
Behind him, Jack heard, "Hey. Hey, boy."
Jack turned, and found two pairs of eyes, one demi-human and one avian, regarding him expectantly.
"Time to go, boy," said the hen. "Take me and go. Now, while you've distracted her."
"Don't be ridiculous," said the Harp, her voice like honeyed thunder. "It is I who am your salvation. Carry me away from here, and you shall be King."
"I'd rather not, thanks," said Jack. "The King isn't very nice. But he likes you both. Why shouldn't you stay?"
"You thick or something?" said the hen. "That monster loves my eggs. And he can't even count them. He thinks I'm drying up! Any day now he'll decide he can get them all by doing a bit of amateur surgery!"
"And the King loves only the power I grant him," said the harp darkly. "You would not be like him, I am sure." She smiled, and Jack felt himself go weak.
"Phil said I was to take the Harp," he said, uncertainly.
"Harpy," said the hen. "He said Harpy, I'm sure. That's me!"
The Harp turned on the hen, discord in her voice. "You liar! You are not a harpy. A harpy is half-bird, half-woman!"
"Yep," cackled the hen. "So I am!"
"Which part is the woman, then?" asked Jack.
The hen slapped him across the face. "La. How dare you be fresh, sir."
"Boy," said the Harp, turning her voice sweet again. "Take me with you and I can command all men to your desire."
"But obviously not women," said the hen. "You never got Mathilda under your spell, did you?"
"Shut up!" snapped the Harp. "And what are you doing?"
"Part woman!" crowed the hen. "See?" There were two bulges just below her neckline.
"You've got two of those grapes stuffed under your feathers, you colossal pervert!" screamed the Harp.
Jack became uncomfortably aware of how loud the Harp's voice was.
"What's all the ruckus in there?" Mathilda's voice came from the kitchen.
"Look, boy," said the hen. "It's no secret to us you're here from the Land of Men. You can carry one of us. Now which is going to be better received by your people down there? Gold? Or a beautiful woman who can't charm other women worth a damn?"
Jack and the hen were accelerating through the main courtyard before the Harp even managed to get the soldiers stirring.
I confess that the run to the Beanstalk is now a blur in the haze of memory. Goldenharp, the first double agent I would ever turn, and the only one I would ever love, had stayed behind to undermine the Giants from within. But in drawing the wrath of the Giant King upon myself, I had run no small risk. However, overheated by the chase in the strong sun of the afternoon, his judgment fatally compromised by rage, he plunged headlong onto the Beanstalk, where Phil's company of sappers waited with their Greataxe directional mines affixed to its stalk. The threat was ended; the Giant King no more than fertilizer strewn over that corner of the Empire.
Tragically, James would never recover from the venom Bulganova had dosed him with. It was a sad end to a great man's career, and it was my honor to have worked with him on his last mission. Until now, my oath of secrecy to the Empire has kept me from telling the true story of the Beanstalk, and the official record would always show that I did not truly become a K.N.A.V.E. agent for another three years.
Of course, the Land of the Giants would hold many more adventures, the rescue of Goldenharp not least among them, but that is a story for another time. And by then, the story of another man. The man codenamed: Giantkiller.
-From Epilogue: "The Giant's Leap." A Man Called Jack
This story originally appeared in the Heroes in Training anthology, DAW, 2007.
G. Scott Huggins grew up in the American Midwest and has lived there all his life, except for interludes in the European Midwest (Germany) and East (Russia). He is currently responsible for securing America's future by teaching its past to high school students, many of whom learn things before going to college. His preferred method of teaching and examination is strategic warfare. He loves to read high fantasy, space opera, and parodies of the same. He has a theology column in the magazine Sci Phi Journal. He wants to be a hybrid of G. K. Chesterton and Terry Pratchett when he counteracts the effects of having grown up. When he is not teaching or writing, he devotes himself to his wife, their three children, and his cat. He loves good bourbon, bacon, and pie, and will gladly put his writing talents to use reviewing samples of any recipe featuring one or more of them. You can read his ramblings and rants (with bibliography) at scotthuggins.wordpress.com.
A Mild Case of Death
David Gerrold
DEATH—AFTER THE FACT—feels just like a bell, like a great giant gong struck with a silver hammer. Bdooonnnggg!!
While I stood there wondering just what the hell had happened, a voice materialized beside me.
IT'S TIME TO GO, DAVE.
"Dave's not here, man—" I said it without thinking.
PLEASE DON'T MAKE TROUBLE, DAVE.
I turned to look at the intruder. "Who are you and what the hell—" The rest of the sentence died in my throat. Or what would have been my throat, if I had still had a throat. But yes, it died.
To tell the truth, I felt disappointed. I had expected, hoped that Death would appear as a tall sepulchral figure in a black hood and cloak, carrying a transparent scythe of mysterious power. If I squinted just right, I could sort of imagine Death as that kind of figure, but mostly he manifested as a polite blurry darkness.
IT'S TIME TO GO, DAVE.
"I already told you, Dave's not here."
The figure hesitated, appeared to check its PDA, or maybe a clipboard. I said it was blurry.
THE SCHEDULE SAYS DAVE. 11:37, SUNDAY EVENING.
"And I told you twice already, Dave's not here."
YOU'RE DAVE.
"No, I'm not."
YOU'RE HERE. IT IS 11:37, SUNDAY EVENING. 11:38 NOW.
"But I'm not Dave. Dave doesn't even live here. He was supposed to stop by earlier, but he never showed. He didn't call either. I don't know what happened to him. Tell you what, if he calls I'll tell him you're looking for him—"
THE SCHEDULE SAYS DAVE. 11:37, PACIFIC STANDARD TIME. AND HERE I AM AND HERE YOU ARE, SO YOU MUST BE DAVE.
"I'm not Dave."
ARE YOU SURE?
"I'm sure."
The figure hesitated. It's hard for a blur to look confused, but it did.
"What's the problem?"
YOU'RE TRYING TO FOOL ME, AREN'T YOU?
"No, I'm not. I'm not Dave. You made a mistake."
NO, I DIDN'T. YOU'RE DAVE.
"Listen, it's all right. Everybody makes mistakes—"
Death checked its clipboard again. I HAVE A SCHEDULE TO KEEP. I HAVE OTHER APPOINTMENTS. WHY DON'T YOU JUST PRETEND YOU'RE DAVE AND COME ALONG LIKE A NICE CHAP. THAT WILL SAVE US BOTH A LOT OF TROUBLE.
"No, I don't think so. That doesn't sound like a good idea to me."
BUT I'VE ALREADY COLLECTED YOU.
"You did what?"
LOOK DOWN.
"Eh? Is that me?"
NO. THAT'S YOUR BODY. YOU'RE RIGHT HERE. NOW IF YOU'LL JUST TELL THEM THAT YOU'RE DAVE, EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL RIGHT FOR BOTH OF US.
"No, wait a minute—!
! I know how Dave lived. He was a liar, a thief, a cheat, a fraud. He was a television producer, for god's sake. If I tell them I'm Dave, they'll send me to the bad place—"
IT'S NOT THAT BAD. IN FACT, IT CAN BE QUITE PLEASANT. EXCEPT FOR THE COMPANY, OF COURSE.
"You've been there?"
NO. BUT I'VE READ THE BROCHURES.
"It's full of lawyers, isn't it?"
NOT AS MANY AS MOST PEOPLE THINK. THEY DON'T LET LAWYERS IN, BECAUSE THEY BRING DOWN THE PROPERTY VALUES. BUT THERE ARE A LOT OF TELEMARKETERS, EVANGELISTS, USED CAR SALESMEN, AND BARRY MANILOW FANS.
"Barry Manilow?"
Death sighed. IT'S A LONG STORY.
"Like we don't have all eternity...? Look, can I ask you something?"
YES?
"Do you have to talk like that?"
LIKE HOW?
"Like that."
OH, THAT.
"Yes."
"Well, not really. But it's sort of expected, so—well, you know."
"That's better. Listen—you seem like a nice fellow, a hard worker, just trying to do the best job you can. I'm sure you call your mom regularly, floss your teeth every day, you don't jaywalk, right?"
"Well—"
"But you get my point. So, why don't you just put me back and let me get on with the rest of my life and I tell you what—if you'll give me your pager number, as soon as I can track down Dave, I'll beep you, okay?"
"I can't do that—"
"Sure you can—"
"No, I can't. I don't know how."
"You don't know how?"
"We don't do reinsertions. Once you're decanted, well—that's pretty much it."
"Decanted? Like you can't get toothpaste back in the tube, eh?"
"Actually, you can get toothpaste back in the tube. Would you like me to show you how it's done?"
"Toothpaste you can do. People, you can't."
"Yes, that's right."
I felt like I should sit down and sink my head into my hands and feel something. Anger? Outrage? Grief? Except I couldn't feel anything. Dead people don't have feelings. Great. Just great.
"Y'know, this is really crappy. All that exercise, all that healthy living, all those goddamn pills and herbs, look at me, I'm so goddamn healthy, vitamins take me. Look at what I missed. All those cheeseburgers and fries and Cokes, all the beer and pizza I never put away. All the booze and dope and fatty foods. This is not fair." I turned to the blur, realizing I towered over it, well maybe not towered, but I had at least a good two inches, maybe three. "Do you have a supervisor?"
"Yes, but it won't do you any good."
"Why not?"
"He's on vacation."
"I'll wait. Right here."
"That's probably not a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because, well—do you really think you'll want to be reinserted after two weeks?"
"This is a done deal, isn't it?"
"Pretty much."
"Somebody owes me, big time."
"You're very convincing, you know."
"Thank you."
"You even had me going there for a minute. Now, come along, Dave."
"I'm not Dave."
"Have it your way." The blur gathered itself together. IT'S TIME TO GO NOW. Then it added politely, DAVE.
"I'm not Dave."
DON'T BE DIFFICULT. YOU'RE DAVE NOW.
"I will too be difficult. I'll be any damn thing I want. I'm going to tell them I'm not Dave."
IT WON'T DO ANY GOOD.
"Why not?"
HUMANS SAY ANYTHING TO AVOID THE CONSEQUENCES OF THEIR ACTIONS. THEY WON'T BELIEVE YOU. IF I SAY THAT YOU'RE DAVE, YOU'RE DAVE.
"This isn't fair—!"
DEATH HAS NEVER BEEN FAIR.
"But I'm not Dave!"
THIS WAY, PLEASE. MIND THE STEP—
It was a long step. Down.
Down?
"Excuse me?"
WHAT?
"Down?"
YES, DOWN.
"This is really not right. I mean it. You got the wrong guy and now you're taking me to the wrong place."
THEY ALL SAY THAT.
"Would you please stop talking like that?"
IT'S PART OF THE JOB.
"Well, it's freaking me out, and I'm already freaked out enough."
EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP, PLEASE.
"The what—?"
Souvenirs
"HELLO, WELCOME to the gift shop!"
The young man was as bright and smiley as a high school cheerleader, and every bit as cute—bubble-butt and all. He wore a crisp red and white uniform. The insignia was shaped like a Star Trek badge. His name badge identified him as Michael.
Great, just great.
"Where am I? Is this—?"
"This is the gift shop, of course. There's always a gift shop at the end of the ride, so you can pick out souvenirs."
"Souvenirs—?"
"Of course!" he sparkled. "You don't want to leave life empty-handed. Take your time, look around. You'll find all kinds of wonderful mementos—"
"Mementos…?"
Michael gestured proudly, pointing with his whole hand. His posture, his smile, everything—he'd obviously been trained by Disney. "Over here, to your right, we have action figures. And over here, to your left—" Another open-palm gesture. A wall of screens.
"Here we have a display of photos taken at all the most surprising moments in your life—here's where you pooped your pants in first grade, that was embarrassing, you look like you're going to cry, what a cutie you were. Oh, I like this—here's one of you learning how to masturbate, looks like you were having a lot of fun there, humping your pillow while watching the Mouseketeers. And here's that auto accident where you were almost killed, that was a close one, look at how scared you were, that's such a great expression! Oh, here's my favorite—your first time having sex with another person—oh my, he was handsome, wasn't he? Look at how amazed you were when he took off his underwear. Let me suggest that you order the whole collection, it comes in a beautiful red leather folder with your name engraved in gold, plus your birth and death dates, no extra charge. Oh—and look, here's your death already—ooh, that's a much better expression than most people make. That's quite nice. You should have that one framed—"
"I, um—okay, this wasn't what I was expecting."
"Yes, I understand. You were on the ride a long time, longer than most—we're seeing that more and more these days, a lot of guests are staying on the ride for decades, sometimes as long as a century. Getting off so suddenly can be a little disorienting." He brightened. "Maybe you'd like to see the action figures—?"
He led me across the aisle, where the racks were filled with stacks and stacks of boxes, each with a different figure, each one appropriately dressed—each of them attached to a colorful cardboard backing, all of them posed and mounted behind form-fitted, stiff transparent plastic. "On this rack, most of these just have you typing, there's a lot of those—but over here, there's even more of you just sitting and staring out the window, I guess you were thinking, right?"
"So those are the inaction figures….?"
Michael shook his head disapprovingly. "Oh no. We would never insult the guest. Those might have been your most interesting moments—that's when you did your best imagining—"
I was already moving to the next counter. "Hey? What are these—?" I held up a couple boxes. "I was never in the Navy. Not the Army either. And what the hell is this? I was never a drag queen. I never did drag in my entire life—I would have looked like my mother."
Michael hurried over to explain, "Oh, those are your alternate lives—who you could have been, what you could have done. I'm afraid you were a disappointingly good person—okay, there's a little shoplifting when you were a kid, some tax evasion as an adult, but those hardly count. Some people, their alternate lives—they've been drunks, abusers, junkies, child molesters, thieves, televangelists, and a lot more murderers than you would believe—but that's a contextual
possibility as much as a personality thing—"
Michael indicated the shelves with another of those professional gestures. "But you—the worst you'll find on the Bad Lives Shelf is lying to your parents, a little bit of early plagiarism—you covered that one well, I'll give you credit for that—and that time you went out driving drunk and stoned and whiplashed that old lady. Tsk tsk. But that's hardly very exciting, I mean, compared to some of the things you could have been—"
"So, all the bad things I've done are—?"
Michael waved it off. "Negligible in context. Compared to some people who've come through here—never mind, that would be tattling."
I looked around. "Is there a Good Lives Shelf? Are there better lives I could have had?"
Michael shook his head. "Well, yes and no—there are better lives you could have had, but you don't need to see them. Some people find them depressing. And in your case, oh my, yes. We don't want you breaking down and crying, collapsing in anguish, smashing things in rage—it disturbs the other guests."
"I'm not that kind of person."
"No, but you could be."
"Really? That's the first piece of good news I've gotten here—"
Michael said, "The whole point of the Alternate Lives Section—to show you some of the other possibilities of the ride. For the next time you do it."
"The next time?"
"Oh yes. Just go around to your right—"
"Uh, no. I don't think so. Not right now. Which way is the exit?"
Michael pointed to the left. "Right out there. Remember, the afterlife is the happiest place after life." He twinkled at me. "Would you like a pair of complimentary wings and a halo?"
"Not really."
"Well, some people expect it, so we make it an option—" He handed me a pair of sunglasses. "But do put these on. It can get pretty bright out there. It's full of stars."
After Life
EVENTUALLY, I FOUND myself in a room.
Well, not a room. A space. Not very well defined. In fact, not defined at all. So I wasn't sure how I knew it was a space. But I knew.
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