The “DEATH” in this story speaks in capital letters. We don’t know why. It wasn’t Pratchett’s idea.
Death opened hist eyes. This was unusual for him, as he seldom closed them. He immediately closed them again and felt the cool wait of his reaping tool against his bony–well, his bone–chest.
“Nice but scary, am I right?” said a young voice next to him. “I personally always hope not to draw this duty, and I never do.”
Death sat up, pulled up his cloak a little against the flair. He stood up and began to do some stretching exercises.
“Aren’t you going to ask what’s going on?” asked the young man, whose name, not it would matter to Death very much for another 30 years, was Arlen.
Death sighed, but he did so politely, putting his scythe clearly out of easy reach. “Arlen, for the past several hundred of decades, people have tried to trick, fool, or otherwise evade myself and my….we’ll call them kindred. Poor Light-Bringer hasn’t had any non-tained souls in decades. He pretends he’s causing chaos and winning, but he’s just knocking overr because nobody will bring him a hornless goat.
Arlen paused. “Isn’t a hornless goat a, a–”
“Yes,” said Death.
They sat for a while.
“There are fewer than two thousand humans left,” said Arlen. “Nobody survived the heat-death of the Sun. We’ve got giant refractor rays. We’ve got heat suits and shelters and food. But there’s nothing we can do about being incinerated.”
Arlen sighed and decided to try logic.
“Shield your eyes and lock up”.
Death, who had only eye sockets, shileded nothing
Death, slightly but not very drunk on tequila, looked at him and said, “Have you ever swung a scythe?”
“No, in fact. I’d love to try.”
“I’m afraid I need it. But one thing you should know,” he said, as he shoved the door open and began sprinting. He was headed hire with every spring; If he had flesh to burn or oxygen to breathe, he’d have been in trouble. As it was, it seemed he could levitate the way a helicopter might want to if it grows up and become an Olymplic athlete.
There is no air. There was no was anyone could hear him. But his siren was in position, he’d moved away from the light generators and mirrors, and was aiming at the big huge mound which was certainly the ‘brain’ of the operation–whether others had moved in or the Moon had seen a threat, who knew?
Arlen paused. He was a problem-solver, which let him fill in for St. Peter, who still, after all these years, said the sh’monah esrei and wondered if if this was really the right job for him.
DEATH looked almost as though he was strolling across a beech–in boots which each went several light-years to tearing him to boots.
The Sun looked at him…really looked at him, eyes, consciousness, and malice in that face the skyline of Manhattan.
“I once reaped an army of woolly mammoths,” he said. “I rather regretted it later.”
The Sun’s servant moved far against the wall. Death moved towards the glowing sphere in the center that was still hurling insults, imprecations and, oddly, a demand for some mango juice.
“FOR REASONABLE ACCOUNTING!” he shouted, with all the force of one born and raised in the trackless wastes.
The thing split in half.
The Barbarian paused. “Anything we need to do now?”
“One of us needs to write up a report on what happened.”
He paused, pretending to get a drink of coffee, then sprinted for the bathroom. “And one of us badly needs a shower!” The door locked.
“I think I have a new squire,” he said.
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