Our Man In Valhalla: Swashbuckler 2

George walked into the pub cloaked in a halo of snowflakes and
everyone stopped talking.

So far, so clich?, he thought.

He shook the melting droplets from him and glanced down at the TAG
watch. Quarter-to-seven; Claudia would be there soon. He'd just have
time for a quick pint. The voices, the noises, wound up again as he
approached the bar.

"Evenin', sir. Wha'll i' be ?" The barman wasn't the sort of thing he
expected, all gold earrings, stubble, scars and missing teeth.

Or maybe he was exactly the sort of thing he expected.

"A pint of Old Similar, please."

"Ol' Sim'lar ?" The barman scratched his chin and the rasping noise
drowned out the hubbub. "Can't says I's got that&;#8230;"

"Oh, right&;#8230; Carling then&;#8230;"

"That neither. Looks, sir, we's got whisky, brandy, wine an', if ye
must, water, an' that's it. So, wha'll it be ?"

"Glass of wine I suppose. What grape is it ?"

The barman laughed a cackling sort of laugh. "How should I know ? This
is The Admiral Benbow, not one o' those poncy taverns in the capital
!"

"The&;#8230; the where ?"

"'Ere, mister." A dark hand slapped down hard on the shoulder of the
Hugo Boss overcoat. George turned and a second hand thrust a wad of
waxed paper at him. The figure was rumpled, grizzled and&;#8230;
one-eyed. "Can ye give this black spot to Blind Pew ?"

George shoved the paper back at the shifty individual. "What ?"

His question, however, went unanswered as, over in a dark corner, The
Crimson Pirate took a swipe at The Scarlet Buccaneer, after the latter
had insulted his red, silk shirt, but he only succeeded in connecting
sharply with Captain Blood's goatee-bewhiskered chin. At the next
table, the remarkably-similar figure in the Lincoln Green desisted from
thrashing the mullet-haired American impostor with his bow, put his
hands on his hips and threw his goatee-bewhiskered chin back with merry
laughter.

In reply, Captain Blood raised a high-booted foot and hit his
doppelganger hard in the midriff; he sent him sprawling backwards into
a black-masked, black-caped, black-hatted form who was carving an
ornate 'Z' into a window shutter with the tip of his blade. "Oi !" he
protested, albeit in a Southern Californian accent.

In the saloon bar, the hand of poker went on undisturbed, the four
seafarers concentrating on their respective hands. "I think Captain
Aubrey is bluffing."

"Don't believe it, Horatio. Jack has picked up many tricks on his trips
to the Americas. What say you, Mister Ramage ?"

"I say he's not the only one to have picked up tricks, Bolitho." Ramage
threw down his hand and beamed. "I do believe that's a Royal Flush,
gentlemen !" The multiple groans drowned out the chaos in the
bar.

George watched wide-eyed as Conan of Cimmeria clashed sparking
broadswords with William Wallace, as D'Artagnan and Porthos danced and
jinked around Spartacus and General Maximus Decimus Merridius, who
stood and fought together back-to-back, and as Richard Sharpe
arm-wrestled Harry Flashman to level the score once again.

"Senor ?"

"Yes ? Oh&;#8230;" The tip of a rapier pressed lightly against the
hollow of George's throat.

Dark eyes glared at him from beneath the mane of black hair. "My name
is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

George held up his hands. The Spaniard stared at one, then the other,
seemingly counting something. He smiled a sheepish, lop-sided smile and
withdrew the blade with a flourish and a bow. "My mistake, senor. Enjoy
your drink." And off he bounded, tossing the sword from hand-to-hand as
he continued his decades-long duel with The Dread Pirate Roberts, who
stood leaning against a wall, chatting up Queen Guinevere.

"What the hell is going on here ?" George turned to a man in an iron
mask who just shrugged a very Gallic sort of shrug and continued
sipping his wine through a straw.
The swords clang-clang-clanged against eachother and an image began to
fade up in George's mind&;#8230;

Swords&;#8230;

One particular sword wrapped in oil cloth on the back seat of the
XJS&;#8230; Antique&;#8230;

Expensively-antique&;#8230;

Clang-clang-clang went the blades in the tavern. George saw still
more&;#8230;

A crowd in a busy street&;#8230; Masked men&;#8230; Him standing
on a car bonnet, the wind whipping around him like a cloak, a huge
weight in his hands&;#8230;

Shhhh-thunk went the arrows as they slammed into the timbered walls.
George saw still more&;#8230;

Him shouting&;#8230; Them laughing, one pulling something from
within his jacket&;#8230; Then a bright flash and a roar&;#8230;
Then pain, so much pain&;#8230;

Then only darkness&;#8230;

The images, the sensations, they all came together like&;#8230; like
some patchwork quilt&;#8230;

And he remembered&;#8230;

"There can be only one." Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod's
French-tinged Scots burr cut through the clamour a bare instant before
the edge of the Samurai sword cut through George's neck.

George's mouth opened and closed as his head wobbled and rocked and,
ever-so-slowly, slid off his shoulders to fall and land and bounce,
bounce, bounce noisily, and painfully, on the wooden floor.

Sightless fingers reached down and groped around until they got hold of
a handful of hair. "What kept yo&;#8230; Ow !" George's body
shrugged and took the thumb out of his eye before lifting it up. "Easy,
now. Left a bit. Make sure I'm on the right way roun&;#8230;"

His voice faded off as he realised what he was saying. The hands placed
the head onto the stump and the fingers probed around the neck. He
couldn't feel the join.

George turned to face the melee. He saw Don Quixote reattach an arm
that the ronin, Sanjuro, had lopped off. He watched as a grinning fox
dressed in Lincoln Green yanked William Tell's crossbow bolt from his
furry forehead, the apple above it still remaining untouched. His eyes
bulged as the four naval men in the saloon bar thrust daggers into
eachother over and over as hidden Aces fell from sleeve after
sleeve.

"Ye want this wine or not ?" The barman shoved the tankard at him
again.

"Excuse me ?"

"Ye're new here, ain't ye ?"

"I&;#8230; uh&;#8230;yes, I guess so."

"Ye'll get used to it." He turned back to the man in the iron mask who
was mumbling something about a refill.

George reached out, tapped the barman on the shoulder. "Excuse me ?
But&;#8230; I'm dead, aren't I."

The barman grinned a half-toothed grin. "What d'ye think ?"

George gulped. "Am&;#8230; Am I in&;#8230;" he whispered the
word, "Hell ?"

The barman grinned even wider and scratched his chin, making that
rasping noise again. He leaned closer. "Take a look around ye. As I
said afore, sir, what d'ye think ?"

George looked about him: Edmond Dantes and Scaramouche clashed swords
with Knights of The Round Table; a quartet of Hamlets (one of whom was
quite contemporarily clad) saw daggers before them as a brace of King
Henry the Fifths cried God for Harry, England and Saint George and went
once more unto the breach; and there were more men (and the odd child
and fox) in Lincoln Green than you could shake a longbow at.

This was like no hell he could ever imagine.

He stroked his chin, smirked at the barman. "If you'll excuse me, I
think I'll just slip into something a bit more&;#8230;
comfortable&;#8230;"

And so, five minutes later&;#8230;

The masked stranger stood upon the table, a grin cleaving his face,
white, ruffed shirt open to the waist showing off the suddenly-trim
physique, black, silver-buckled boots gleaming. He swished and flashed
his blade in an ornate figure of eight and, black cloak a-swirling,
leapt nimbly onto the bar, thrusting the tip through the Sea Hawk's
throat. The figure put one hand on his hip and threw his
goatee-bewhiskered chin back with merry laughter as he pulled the sword
out of his healing flesh and resumed the duel.

George skipped and spun along the bartop, leaping over cutlasses,
ducking under arrows, pausing only to steal a kiss from that warrior
princess, Xena, all the time beaming and laughing.

This was his Valhalla. This was his Avalon.

He was happy.

* * *

Claudia gazed down into the tank, gazed at the white flask, thick
clouds steaming off it.

She wrapped her arms tight around herself and shuddered.

The cryotechnician beside her grinned wryly. "We get used to the cold,
down here."

"How&;#8230; how long can you&;#8230;"

The tech shrugged. "As long as necessary. Ten years, a hundred, a
thousand, whatever. Mister Disney's head's been here for almost half a
century now. He's&;#8230; oh&;#8230; somewhere over there." He
waved a hand along the row-after-row of equally-identical tanks that
filled the cryovault, each containing rack-after-rack of
equally-identical flasks. "Your husband can stay here until science can
heal him." He grinned at Claudia again. "Or until the fees stop being
paid."

Claudia's face darkened at the quip. The tech went quiet. She continued
to stare at the flask. "Can he think ? Can he dream ?"

"Oh, we wetwire stuff from our databases into his brain
twenty-four/seven just to keep it active. Thanks to the info you gave
us, he'll be having a whale of a time in a little fantasy world all of
his own for the next few centuries."

Claudia continued to stare at the flask containing the deep-frozen,
preserved head of her beloved husband, George, and she smiled.

He was happy.