Unidentified Funny Objects 2

by Silverberg, Robert

  “What’s it going to be, John?”

  It took him a second to realize Scaramouche had called him by his human name. “I’m not—”

  “Stop it.” Scaramouche waved a gloved hand. “Voiceprint matching. Facial comparison software on the mouth and chin your old mask left exposed. General build and body language. Not to mention ‘John Knight’s’ convenient Powerball win years back. Yet, despite your millions, you kept your job in the newsroom. All the better to keep tabs on the city, right? Until recently, when you—I mean, he—went on longterm medical leave.”

  Kelly was staring at him. “John?”

  “How could you not know, Kane?” Scaramouche asked. “You’re supposed to be a reporter!”

  “If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?” asked Stranger.

  “This was more fun.” Scaramouche waved a hand impatiently. “Go on, show her. You’re dying anyway, right?”

  With a sigh, Stranger removed his helmet.

  “Whoa.” Scaramouche jumped back. “Never thought anyone could make me feel pretty. When did the alien acne start?”

  “Side effect of the treatment.” He touched the swollen lumps. Uneven stubble covered his scalp and much of his face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, John?” asked Kelly.

  Stranger managed a small, self-deprecating smile. “I was afraid some psychopath would use you against me.”

  “You’ve tried to kill him so many times,” Kelly said to Scaramouche. “Why would you save him?”

  “Because this is a ridiculous way to die!” Scaramouche shouted, suddenly furious. “Killer robots, psychotic alien gladiators, zapped into the seventh dimension of Hell, that’s how people like us are supposed to die. If nothing else, we should tumble over a waterfall to our deaths together like Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty.”

  “I thought Holmes survived,” Kelly said.

  “Shut up. The point is, fuck cancer. Cancer’s not even an ironic death. It’s just stupid!”

  Stranger had never been able to outthink Scaramouche. “If you let me die—”

  “Then they import a new hero.” Scaramouche snorted. “I can’t stand temps. They don’t understand our routine.” She tapped a control on her wrist, and the explosives began to beep in unison, a chirping chorus of impending death. “I don’t have all day. I have yoga at four thirty.”

  Stranger sagged against the truck. He couldn’t let Kelly die. “You win.”

  “The hell she does!” The tumor’s outrage bubbled through Stranger’s thoughts. “Nobody defeats Tumor and the Fecal Tornado!”

  Scaramouche giggled as she retrieved the time magnet from another trailer. The pistol-sized device resembled a radar gun.

  “I’m sorry, John,” said Kelly.

  Scaramouche sang in Italian as she calibrated the time magnet. “October third of 2002, wasn’t it? You were in a coma after moving the moon back into its proper orbit. If I pull you through from that day, the young you should sleep through the whole mind transfer.”

  “Dumbass.”

  Stranger clenched his jaw. “If you have something to say…”

  “Forget the acid tank. Just stop scarface from triggering it.”

  “I can’t control people. I’m not telepathic.”

  “Double dumbass. You’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

  “You’re a tumor, not a person, and I can’t control you.”

  “That hurt. You can’t control me because I’m superpowered. Scaramouche isn’t. More importantly, the meat in her skull isn’t.”

  The words hit him like a sucker punch from Gargantua. No matter how twisted Scaramouche might be, she was also brilliant enough to make this so-called “cure” work. That hope had wormed its way into Stranger’s heart, poisoning his thoughts just as his tumors had done to his flesh. With Kelly in danger, he had no choice. He had to accept Scaramouche’s offer, because it was the only way to save an innocent life. If that meant killing an alternate version of himself, so be it. But if there was any alternative…

  “Damn you.” He couldn’t decide who was more cruel: Scaramouche, for offering hope, or his tumor, for taking it away.

  Stranger concentrated, trying to imagine Scaramouche not as a person, but as a collection of flesh and blood and bones. A body, complex and beautiful and fragile. A biological machine controlled through the junction of electrical cables to the brain. He focused on that pulsing lump of electrochemically-active meat and whispered, “Stop.”

  Scaramouche collapsed like a discarded Muppet.

  Stranger studied the controller on Scaramouche’s wrist. “How do I use you to deactivate the bombs?”

  “What did you do?” Kelly whispered. “She’s not breathing.”

  “She’s not doing anything,” Stranger said. “I shut down her brain.”

  “You killed her?” She sounded horrified.

  “It was my tumor’s idea.” He finished disarming the trap, then snapped the chains holding Kelly in place. He picked up the time magnet. His hands shook. Clenching his jaw, he crushed the device to scrap.

  “Can you revive her?”

  “Don’t do it! Wait another twenty seconds, and she’s a rutabaga for life!”

  With a sigh, Stranger willed Scaramouche’s brain to live.

  “SO YOU BEAT THE VILLAIN, saved the girl, and mastered a new aspect of your powers,” said Jarhead. “Sounds like a win to me.”

  “It was. I think I owe her more than I realized.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You owe me, you ungrateful alien superdouche! If I’d known what you meant to do next, I never would have taught you that trick!”

  “Because after I returned Scaramouche to Edgewood, I started thinking. If I could force her brain to shut down, why couldn’t I do the same to an ordinary human tumor?”

  “I saved your life, and in return, you declared war on my brothers and sisters.”

  “I thought you couldn’t control the cancer.”

  “I can’t control mine.” He sat back in the chair. “How many people do you think I could help in six months? And when my own tumors finally begin to win, I thought I’d take a nice, long flight into the sun.”

  “Suicide?”

  “No.” For once, the tumor was mercifully silent. “Just a hero and his arch-nemesis tumbling over the waterfall.”

  Story Notes:

  Jim would like to thank author Jay Lake for his help and encouragement on this story, as well as for his honesty and openness in sharing the ugly details about living—and dying—with cancer. Well fought, sir.

  Jim C. Hines is the author of the Magic ex Libris series, which has been described as a love letter to books and storytelling. He’s also written the Princess series of fairy tale retellings and the humorous Goblin Quest trilogy, along with more than forty published short stories. He’s an active blogger, and won the 2012 Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer. You can find him online at www.jimchines.com.

  HOW TO FEED YOUR PYROKINETIC TODDLER

  by Fran Wilde

  Department of New Health Services, Parenting Manual #415

  With the recent epidemic of pyrokinesis-novus affecting children worldwide, parents who are eager to move from the newborn-feeding stage should consider the following guidelines and questions, developed to help promote healthier eating, better feeding socialization (in light of the current food-lobbing craze), and more confident, calmer parenting.

  Suggested Equipment:

  Oven mitts.

  Metal spoon and bowl (no plastic!).

  Flame-retardant diapers, bib, and seat.

  Dining space free of loose fabric, curtains, and lint.

  Welder's mask (optional).

  Signs a child is ready for solid foods: Pincer-grasps objects, makes chewing motions, and remote-singes milk or formula. Caution: You may be ready for your child to begin eating solid food long before they are. Do not rush this stage.

  What should I feed my toddler? Healthy eating must begin while children have limit
ed ignition capacity and their aim remains unfocused. Children should be able to self-feed and make good choices before full pyrokinetic abilities develop. Suggested beginner foods include mashed items that taste better when warm or toasted: pumpkin, corn, peas, and potatoes.

  For older toddlers, consider reward systems that keep tempers from flaring. Vitamin-added mini-marshmallows and tater tots are a fun treat for the whole family.

  Creating a calm dining environment: The process of establishing toddler likes and dislikes is admittedly riskier than in past generations. A safe environment is paramount: remove all fabric from the dining space before seating your toddler in their fireproof high chair. Remember to keep your voice level or upbeat at all times. A patient parent can slowly introduce new foods and guide a toddler's curiosity without undue scorching.

  Suggested feeding methods: (1) Scoop and run: Spoon a small portion of food onto the metal utensil and place it on your toddler's lips. Step back quickly. Repeat as necessary. (2) Distraction (requires two adults): Have one parent make funny sounds from afar to distract the toddler's aim. Proceed with scoop and run. (3) For picky eaters: Brightly colored, FDA-approved, non-flammable extend-a-spoons are available from Disher-Brice and Fabbo.

  Dining out with toddlers: Today's family restaurants are either completely fireproof or equipped with the latest family-friendly extinguishers. These venues will now only accommodate groups of six and fewer. Do not allow children to run among the tables or chase the wait staff, and be sure to leave a large gratuity. Do not expect to be welcome at any, now rare, historic restaurants, heavily-tapestried venues, or cafés featuring wooden decks. Avoid gasoline-powered food trucks at all costs.

  In an emergency: This manual can be used to extinguish small fires.

  Success gallery: (photo) Betsy Van Morris of Glen Cove, NY, feeding Sue-Ellen, age two, while wearing the experimental scorch-guard parent-cover, in clown print.

  **Remember, you are your child's best advocate and resource. Teach them responsible eating, before it's too late.**

  Parents of younger children and tweens: Please see manuals #4332 and #7554.

  Parents of teenagers: Please phone the Department of New Health Services with your success stories as soon as possible. Our thoughts are with you.

  Fran Wilde writes speculative fiction and fantasy short stories and novels. She can also tie a bunch of sailing knots, set gemstones, and program digital minions. She rarely ties gemstones, programs sailing knots, or sets minions. Hardly ever. She's on the Twitter (@fran_wilde), and can be found talking about food and genre fiction (nothing flambé yet!) at www.franwilde.wordpress.com.

  A STIFF BARGAIN

  By Matt Mikalatos

  I woke to the sound of my own name, though it was not yet time to rise. I reached for the comforting feel of my coffin lid and discovered to my dismay that I was lying on a feather mattress, covered by a quilt which must have weighed at least ninety pounds. I had forgotten that I had moved into a boarding house.

  “Isaac van Helsing,” the voice said again.

  I pried my eyes open. Standing at the foot of my bed was my former servant and thrall, Richard. This surprised me, as he was dead.

  He thrust out his lower lip, pouting. “You murdered me. Your loyal servant!”

  Richard had recently tried to murder me. He had pinned me, sucked my blood to become a vampire and left me to die at the claws of a rather nasty zombie bear. He was a vampire for about thirty seconds before he stupidly walked past a sun lamp I had set up. The last time I had seen him, it had been while emptying out my Dust Buster. I cleared my throat. “You were never particularly loyal.”

  “Semantics,” Richard said. “And now, I’ve returned as a ghost. For sweet revenge!” With a flourish, he lifted one transparent hand and yanked back the curtains. On reflex, I raised my hand to shield myself from the sunlight, but a weak grey light filtered through the window. It was dusk. Late dusk, at that. Richard cursed.

  I lowered my hand and rolled my eyes. “Ah,” I said, tonelessly. “The sunlight. It burns.”

  “Don’t mock me! It was daylight when I got here. It’s difficult to wake you. You sleep like the dead.”

  I pulled on my jeans, then my shirt. I padded barefoot toward the kitchen, Richard floating beside me. “This is all your fault,” he said. “I don’t have a job now. How will I make a living?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re dead. You don’t need to make a living.” I could hear Mother Holmes, the owner of the old boarding house, clanking pots and humming to herself. She refused to treat me like a vampire, choosing instead a smothering maternal attitude of smug, but loving, superiority.

  “Good evening,” I said, and Mother Holmes turned, her face wrinkled as an ancient apple. She plopped a bowl of stew on the table in front of me. The smell of garlic wafted from the bowl, burning my eyes and blistering my skin. I pushed it away. “Mother Holmes, as I’ve told you three nights in a row, I cannot eat human food.”

  She scowled. “You pay for room and board, and that is precisely what you will get.”

  She spooned a bit of stew into her mouth and looked at Richard. “It’s good to see you again, dear. What are you up to these days? You look much too thin.”

  Richard gave me a long stare, then turned to Mother Holmes. “I plan to haunt Isaac for a century or two. Maybe murder him if I get a chance. Outside of that, I’m not really sure.”

  A hearty knock came from the door, and I gladly leapt from my chair to answer. Mayor Rigby stood outside, his hat in his chubby hands and an apologetic smile on his face. “Good evening, Mr. Van Helsing,” he said.

  He stepped quickly inside and I closed the door behind him. He nodded to Mother Holmes and dropped his hat. His sweaty, nervous manner practically shouted “prey,” and I licked my lips without thinking. “Is there a problem, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Nothing you can’t handle,” he said, counting out three hundred dollars in bills and laying them on the table.

  Richard floated over. “Is it the squirrels?”

  I gave him an irritated scowl. “Be silent, this is business for the living. The dead are best seen but not heard.”

  Richard mumbled something about how I was undead, and I made a mental note to find a good exorcist. The mayor put his finger on the bills. “This is only the up-front money, of course.”

  I nodded. This was our current arrangement. I removed supernatural horrors from his community (myself excluded) and he paid me. I then paid Mother Holmes and remained, as always, one of the rare vampires unable to afford a castle or underground grotto. I was never good with money. Still, my current modest room was a considerable upgrade from my previous home: a black, windowless cargo van with a coffin screwed into the floor, currently parked in front of Mother Holmes’s house. “Is it,” I asked, “the squirrels?”

  “No, no,” the mayor said, annoyed. “They’re a minor inconvenience. Hardly worth the money.”

  I had no idea what was going on with the squirrels, and must admit to a feeling of relief. I had no desire to chase rodents through the trees, supernatural or not. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Mayor?”

  He looked at his feet and flushed. “It’s the leader of our neighboring town. Her name is Katie Lou Riley. Every week Ms. Riley calls and leaves disturbing messages on my voice mail… truly disturbing messages. She threatens that she will come and take over our fair town’s government. I was hoping you could persuade her to stick to her own town.”

  I cocked my head and looked at him carefully. “That’s all? You’re not holding anything back?”

  The Mayor coughed delicately into his hand. “Well. She does have certain… powers.”

  “Like?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Mind control. Things like that.”

  I shrugged. As a vampire I could hypnotize people, control animals, turn into a wolf or a bat, and live forever, so long as I didn’t get a wooden piercing, eat garlic, or wear cross jewelry. Some mayor with mind control powers shouldn’t
be too much to worry about. “I’ll take care of it,” I said.

  Richard floated through the table. “I’ll come with you. To watch your back.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Watch my back?”

  “In case there’s a chance to slip a knife into it.”

  I couldn’t stop him, so he floated alongside me as I drove the cargo van to the next town. As we crossed the town limits, I felt a deep shiver go down my spine. I pulled the van to a stop outside of city hall, but it was nearly ten at night. All the offices were closed.

  I rolled down the window. A rousing chorus of song came from a nearby church, and lights blared from the windows. Richard and I exchanged glances and we made our way toward the church.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said, as we got closer. A band of people burst from the church, beating spoons against pans and shouting like maniacs.

  Richard grinned, showing his ghostly teeth. “They’re going to kill you, I just know it.”

  I snatched a townie out of the dancing, shouting mob and yanked him toward me. “I’m looking for Katie Lou,” I said. His eyes lit up and he cheered.

  “He’s one of us, boys,” he shouted, and the crowd let out a huzzah.

  I scratched my cheek. That was puzzling. “Where is she?”

  “She’s sleeping. She’s a… what’s the word?”

  Another person in the crowd shouted, “Narcoleptic!”

  A third person said, “Well, not exactly. She just sleeps a lot.”

  I drew myself to my full height, puffed out my chest and bared my canine teeth. “Then let us wake her!”

  The crowd, strangely, did not appear terrified. Instead, they let out a terrific cheer, and swept me toward the church. I fought against the dark tide of the crowd, because a vampire cannot enter consecrated ground. I would catch on fire and burn to death, a rather unpleasant way to go. Richard knew this, and it was with obvious pleasure that he began to shout, “Yes, yes, everyone into the church.”