Funny Fantasy

by Gail Carriger

I reach my hand out, and sure enough a pudgy invisible hand takes hold of it. I give it a pull, and suddenly there is a pop! and then Milton is standing next to me, looking both relieved and annoyed.

  He stares at Anna Conda with a combination of fear and awe. "Who does your protection?" he asks. "Whoever it is, he's good!"

  "I need no protector," answers Anna.

  "I can believe it," says Benny fervently.

  "Enough of this chit-chat," I say. "I still want my money."

  Dugan walks over and stands next to Anna. "Enough!" he says. "I will not stand idly by and let you pester the love of my life."

  "Actually, she is more the love of your death," Gently Gently points out.

  "Whatever she is," I say, "I am not inclined to supply her with a dowry one hour after collecting it from Longshot Lamont." I turn to her. "I hope you and Dugan will be very happy, and can find a hotel that caters to both of whatever you are, and I will even pop for a flimsy nightgown if you are going to tie the knot, but I still want my three large."

  "And if I do not agree to part with it, will you put a hit out on Dead End Dugan?" she asks with a cold reptilian smile, and I have to admit that the idea of putting out a hit on a dead man can best be called counter-productive.

  "Milton," I say, "have you got any other tricks up your sleeve?"

  "He has nothing up his sleeve except his arm," says Anna. "And if he tries anything, he will make me lose my temper. You will not be happy if I should lose my temper. The last time I lose it they blame what happens on Hurricane Katrina, and the time before that they invent Hurricane Andrew."

  "Did you do Chernobyl too?" asks Benny curiously.

  "No," she says. "That was my kid sister."

  "I am sure I will love her too," says Dugan.

  No sooner do the words leave his mouth than Anna gets all red in the face and lets out a shriek. All the windows break, my fillings fall out of my teeth, a bus half a block away veers and plows into a fire hydrant, and every dog with a mile begins howling.

  "I am sorry," says Anna a moment later. "I have a jealous and passionate nature."

  "To say nothing of cataclysmic and catastrophic and a lot of other words that begin with 'cat'," I agree.

  "I see your friend is sprawled out on the floor," she says, indicating Gently Gently. "I hope I did not do him irreparable damage."

  "If he can survive eighty-seven million calories," I say as Benny and I heave him to his feet, "he can survive a jealous scream."

  "Where am I?" mumbles Gently Gently. "Are we at war? What day is it? Wait! I have it! Flyaway won and the world came to an end!"

  "You'll be all right," I say. "Just stand there and try not to think."

  "That should be very easy for him," says Benny. "Not thinking is one of the best things Gently Gently does."

  Anna Conda turns to Dugan. "I am sorry I have upset your friends so much. I cherish our relationship, and to prove it I will return Harry the Book's money."

  "While those are words I have been longing to hear," answers Dugan, "the part about cherishing our relationship, not the part about Harry's money, I am mildly surprised as our total time spent in each other's company has been only ten minutes, give or take."

  "That is about seven minutes longer than most of my relationships last," says Anna. "I will be back with the money in a moment."

  She goes into one of the back rooms, and Benny walks over to Dugan.

  "I would be very careful with this girl," he says confidentially. "For example, when she suggests you go out for a bite, I will give plenty of eight-to-five that she is not talking about patronizing a restaurant."

  Anna comes out and hands me a bag containing the three thousand dollars. "It is all there," she says. "You can count it if you wish."

  "That is not necessary," I tell her. "Dugan would never cheat me, and if you would I prefer not to know about it, because then I will not have to do anything about it."

  She gives me another of those smiles that are more frightening that a gorgon's grimace. "You are wise beyond your years, Harry the Book."

  "And you are formidable beyond yours, Anna Conda," I say, bowing low, but not so low that I can't jump back if she changes her mind and reaches for the money, or maybe my neck.

  As we are leaving, Benny whispers to me: "I know Love is blind, but until this minute I do not realize he is on life support."

  And that is the story of Dead End Dugan's very special girl. I suppose their relationship was doomed from the start. I know that opposites attract, but there is nothing in the rule book about anyone quite as opposite as Dugan and Anna. They decide to go away for a weekend in the mountains. Dugan never mentions exactly what happens, except that he makes a mistake by remarking that the tour bus driver is very pretty, but I am told that when the next edition of Rand McNally comes out Pike's Peak will now be Pike's Valley.

  "I have learned a valuable lesson, Harry," Dugan tells me when it is all over. "From now on, I will stick to my own kind."

  And so he does. The next afternoon I am sitting in the third booth at Joey Chicago's, reading the Form, and the smell of rotting flesh is twice as strong as ever. I look up and there is Dugan and his new girlfriend, sidling up to the bar.

  "What can I get you and this beautiful young lady?" asks Joey Chicago, managing to string together three misstatements in just three words.

  "What will it be, my dear?" says Dugan.

  "It's been so many decades since I've drunk anything at all, I can't remember," says his companion. "Why don't we let the bartender decide?"

  "I've got just the thing," says Joey Chicago, pulling out a pair of tall glasses and little paper umbrellas.

  "And what is that?" asks Dugan.

  "A pair of Zombies," says Joey Chicago.

  This story originally appeared in Blood Lite, Gallery Books, 2008.

  Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short science fiction. He is the winner of five Hugos (from a record thirty-seven nominations), a Nebula, and other major awards in the USA, France, Japan, Croatia, Catalonia, Poland and Spain.

  He is the author of seventy-five novels, almost 300 stories, and three screenplays, and has edited forty-two anthologies. He currently edits Galaxy's Edge magazine and Stellar Guild books. His web page is www.mikeresnick.com.

  The Blue Corpse Corps

  Jim C. Hines

  HALF THE GOBLINS under Jig's command died over the course of the battle.

  Given that goblin casualties were usually double that amount, and more importantly, that Jig himself was in the half that survived, he wasn't going to complain.

  The rest of the survivors showed no such restraint. They had gathered in the shade of some stunted pine trees on the way back to the lair. Jig sat a short distance from the others, dumping rocks and dirt from his boot as he listened to their grumbling.

  "It's not natural," said Valkaf, a younger warrior who had lost her left ear during the fighting. "What do we care about renegade human wizards and outlaws? Let the humans kill each other. Just as long as they stay out of our tunnels."

  "The only reason the king hasn't sent his army to kill every goblin in the lair is because of the treaty," Jig pointed out.

  Valkaf laughed, a nasty sound that brought back memories of Jig's younger days. He had been a small, scrawny muckworker, and had spent most of his childhood learning how to survive the torments of the bigger goblins . . . which included pretty much everyone. But those lessons had served him well as a small, scrawny adult.

  "So instead, we do the human king's dirty work," Valkaf said. "Hunting his criminals."

  "Only the ones who hide on our mountain," Jig mumbled.

  Heat wafted from Jig's right shoulder as Smudge, his pet fire-spider, reacted to the growing hostility in Valkaf's words. Not that Jig needed the warning. The other goblins had already begun to split into two groups. Most gathered by Valkaf, the only exceptions being Braf, who appeared oblivious, and Skalk, who had taken sev
eral nasty wounds during the fighting.

  Jig couldn't blame them. He was the one who had signed the treaty with King Wendel, naively hoping it would end the fighting between goblins and humans. Instead, it had simply shifted the war to a different front, one for which goblins were ill-prepared: politics.

  Pages and pages of obligations. Taxes to be paid, and duties to be performed . . . including the defense of goblin territory against all outlaws. To neglect that duty was to violate the treaty. So the fighting had continued, only the goblins now paid taxes for the privilege. They were tired of it, and none moreso than Jig himself.

  Braf scratched the inside of his nostril with his little finger. "At least we got to burn a human camp. And I got to punch a horse."

  One of Valkaf's supporters laughed. "That was no horse, you idiot. That was a donkey."

  "I thought it was a cow," said another.

  Braf's expression was a carefully crafted mask of vacant confusion. "Well, it was a big cow."

  It was enough to break the tension. The goblins began to relax, boasting about their triumphs over the wizard and his magically cursed warriors who had refused to die. Jig caught Braf's eye long enough to give him a tiny nod of thanks.

  "Hey, Skalk stopped whining!" Valkaf kicked the wounded goblin in the side. "Good timing. I'm hungry."

  "We'll be back at the lair before nightfall," Jig said. "We could bring him back and let Golaka roast him properly, with that spider egg jelly she makes¬—"

  "I'm hungry now," Valkaf shouted. "Unless you want to haul his carcass up the mountainside? Let's build a fire and toss him in."

  "Save me some palm meat!"

  "I want a leg. No, wait. How bruised are the arms?"

  Jig's mouth watered. He was hungry after the battle, and—

  Heat seared Jig's cheek. Smudge was growing hotter with every passing moment. The palm-sized spider paced a tight circle on Jig's leather shoulder pad. When one hairy leg brushed Jig's ear, it was hot enough to raise blisters.

  Jig tugged the shoulder pad further from his face, nearly dislodging his spectacles in his haste. He perked his good ear and searched the woods, but he neither saw nor heard anything dangerous. So what was Smudge reacting to?

  "Looks like one of the humans already started in on him." Valkaf pointed to a nasty bite on Skalk's shoulder. The blue skin had turned black, and blood oozed from the wound. "Let Jig have that part."

  "This might not be a good idea," said Jig. He stepped closer to the body. A tiny wave of red fire rippled over Smudge's back in response. "I've only seen Smudge this scared a few other times."

  Braf hesitated. "But Skalk's so well-tenderized from the fighting."

  Jig backed away. He didn't bother to argue further. They wouldn't listen. They might follow his plans in battle, because they knew he was good at surviving, but this was food.

  Braf scowled and rubbed his stomach. "I'd better not. I had some bad dwarf yesterday, and my stomach hasn't recovered. If I eat Skalk, my trousers will regret it before the day's over."

  Jig's stomach gurgled as the others began roasting Skalk's body. He scowled at Smudge. "You'd better be right about this . . ."

  DESPITE SMUDGE'S FEARS, they reached the lair without incident. Jig relaxed somewhat as he left the moonlit sky for the security of the obsidian tunnels. His warriors exchanged boasts with the guards as they passed into the wide, sour-smelling cavern which was home to more than two hundred goblins.

  Green muckfires burned around the edge of the cavern. The scent of fresh meat made his mouth water as he passed Golaka's kitchen, but that smell was soon overpowered by muck smoke, goblin sweat, and fouler things.

  Jig kept his head down as he made his way toward a smaller cave at the back of the lair where goblins fought for sleeping space. He claimed an old blanket in a bumpy corner nearest the crack connecting this cave to the lair.

  Sleep refused to come. Images from the day's battle blurred through his mind. Groaning human warriors who refused to stay dead. The memories blurred into fights from months and years before. No matter how many battles Jig survived, there was always another enemy. Dragons and pixies, humans and orcs, and of course his fellow goblins. He had survived for years on trickery, cleverness, and luck, but it wouldn't last forever.

  The chief's voice echoed through the lair, jolting Jig from his memories. "Where is that runt Jig?"

  The other goblins in the sleeping cave moved away as Jig groaned and stood. Whatever the problem, they wanted nothing to do with it. Smudge grew warmer as Jig trudged into the main lair.

  "What is that?" Trok demanded, jabbing his sword toward the entrance where Braf, Valkaf, and one of the guards were fighting a battered goblin.

  Jig adjusted his spectacles. "That's . . . that's Skalk. But he died."

  "Does he look dead?" Trok was a fierce figure of a goblin, strong and well-armed. He had taken to filing his fangs lately. The tips were white and needle-sharp. "What happened to him?"

  "We . . . kind of ate him. The other goblins did, I mean."

  Skalk looked like a rag doll that had been devoured by tunnel-cats, then hacked back up. One leg was missing; the other ended at the knee. His left hand was gone as well. He was filthy, and the fingers of his right hand were bloody. He must have dragged himself back to the lair.

  Blackened skin cracked and oozed as he fought the other goblins. The few uncooked areas of skin were a sickly blue-gray. Jig could see a whitish film covering his eyes . . . just like the human zombies they had fought before.

  "If you're hungry and want to eat one of your wounded, that's one thing," Trok yelled. "But kill him first!"

  "We did!" Jig protested. "I mean, he was!"

  Skalk groaned as Braf rammed a long spear through his ribs. It didn't slow him down. He reached out, trying to pull himself along the spear toward Braf even as Valkaf hacked off his other hand with her axe.

  "The humans we fought were the same way." Jig swallowed. "When that human bit Skalk, it must have infected him somehow. You'll have to burn him or cut him into pieces to stop him."

  Trok pursed his lips. "Warriors who don't die."

  "They die," Jig said. "It just doesn't slow them down. They keep—Oh, no." He recognized the calculating look on Trok's face.

  By now, Valkaf had grabbed the other end of the spear. She and Braf lifted Skalk off the ground. He let out a confused moan as his body slowly upended. His head swung to and fro over the floor. The stumps of his arms reached uselessly for the spear.

  "Imagine an army of goblins who can't be killed," Trok said.

  "Because they're already dead!" But it was too late. Others had overheard.

  One of the closest goblins sprinted toward Skalk. "I want to be unkillable!" He tried to shove his arm into Skalk's mouth, but Braf kicked him away. More closed in, pushing and yelling in their eagerness to become zombies.

  "You have to stop them," Jig said. "They'll attack anything, even their own kind. They won't obey orders. They don't care who's in charge. All they do is kill and eat."

  "So they'll be no different than most goblin warriors," Trok said. He waded into the middle of the crowd, tossing the other goblins aside. He started to speak, and then his gaze fixed on Valkaf.

  Skalk had gouged her arm in the fighting, but the wound wasn't bleeding like a normal injury. Instead, the cut oozed dark, mudlike blood . . . just like Skalk. Valkaf glanced down as though surprised.

  "You're like him, aren't you?" Trok tapped Skalk's head with the toe of his boot.

  "But she wasn't bitten," Jig protested. His stomach tightened. Valkaf had eaten plenty of Skalk the night before. No wonder Smudge had warned him against it.

  "Behold the first of my zombie warriors," Trok shouted. "We'll call them Trok's Trudging Troops! The Blue Corpse Corps! An unstoppable army of blue death!"

  "That's true." Valkaf's words were slightly slurred. She dropped her end of the spear, slammed her axe through Skalk's neck, then turned toward Trok. "You can't stop me, can you?"
/>   "Oh, dung," Jig whispered.

  Valkaf raised her bloody axe. "I challenge Trok for leadership of the goblin lair!"

  GOBLINS HAD NO rules regarding challenges for leadership. Indeed, often the challenge wasn't even announced until after the challenger finished stabbing the former chief in the back.

  Valkaf charged. Trok swore, grabbed the nearest goblin, and flung him into Valkaf's path. She struck the poor goblin aside, but doing so tied up her axe long enough for Trok to draw his own weapon, a two-handed sword with brass spikes on the hilt and crossguard.

  Jig pushed his way to the back of the crowd, where he could watch the fight through a protective layer of goblin spectators. Trok had already hit Valkaf twice, cutting her left arm and stabbing her through the gut. Neither wound affected her as far as Jig could see.

  Jig frowned as he watched Valkaf fight. Against the humans, she had been vicious and gleeful, fighting with her own unique and terrifying style. Now that joy was gone, and her attacks were as straightforward as those of a child. Straightforward but powerful, and she showed no sign of weariness.

  Trok backed away, earning jeers from the watching goblins, but Jig saw what Trok was doing. Every step he retreated brought him closer to one of the shallow muck pits, burning with foul-smelling green flame. If swords wouldn't stop Valkaf, fire would.

  Heat pulled Jig's attention to Smudge, and then to the four goblins beyond who had broken away from the crowd. They gathered around the body of the hapless goblin Trok had flung into the path of Valkaf's axe.

  Braf saw them as well. "Stop that," he shouted. "Wait until Golaka has the chance to cook him. And save some for the rest of us!" He started to reach for one of the goblins.

  All four snarled, and Braf jumped away. Blood and worse dripped from the goblins' fangs, and they shared the same vacant, hungry expressions Jig remembered all too well from the human zombies.

  Jig didn't move. He tried not to breathe until the goblins slowly turned their attention back to the corpse.