Unidentified Funny Objects 2 (25 page)

“Bite me,” she said.

So he did.

She pulled her arm back and lunged at him. “You son of a Lweghalese dogworm!”

They kept their hands around each other’s throats as they knocked over barstools, spitting, gasping, clawing.

“Hey, you two!” the bartender called out as she sprayed them with Nitreian soda. “Get a room!”

So they did.

THEY FOUGHT OVER WHOSE room it would be, because they both wanted the privilege of residing in the inevitable wreckage. He ended the debate in the corridor by throwing her over his shoulder. She bruised the hell out of his kidneys on the way.

“Knock it off,” he said. “I need those to pee.”

“I know,” she said with another solid punch.

They swung like a twisting pendulum between fighting and sex, sex and fighting, until they exhausted themselves and came to rest on the mattress that at some point in the frenzied proceedings had been torn off the bed.

“That was great,” she said, falling into his arms.

“You’re amazing,” he said, rolling on top of her.

“Can you? Again? So soon?” she said with undiplomatic surprise.

“Try to stop me,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said.

They went another two rounds before she left him snoring gently through a swollen nose.

“I TRUST MADAM ENJOYED her stay?”

The Diplomat smiled 93-Z: sincere, relaxed pleasure. She’d just come from the spa, where in addition to a last massage and a Prizian fleshmite exfoliation, she’d had a mani, a pedi, and a minor injury healing, mostly for the brawl she’d started in the bar the night before.

“Yes, thank you.” She slid an envelope across the desk. “If you could make sure the staff on this list are credited with the amounts noted?”

“Of course. And if madam would care to review this list of damages…” The concierge passed the Diplomat a souvenir scroll.

“I see you’ve included the destruction of the Rytalian Singing Fountain, but there’s no charge.”

“Yes, madam. One of your colleagues insisted it come out of his deposit. He was most adamant.”

“I’m sure he was.”

She left the hotel refreshed, revitalized, and once again ready to carry the weight of her headdress and the Transgalactic Empire.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER THE Diplomat found herself opposite a familiar face at the negotiating table. They’d been called to resolve the renewal of hostilities between the Dlarmonic Trade Federation and a loose alliance of Xithanian rebels. He chose, in classic Xithanian style, to greet her with the slightly smarmy 87-L. The Diplomat created a moment of uncertainty with a fractional response delay followed by the mildly amused 12-B.

When he returned the puckish 49-M, she knew he was thinking fondly of his bruised kidneys.

And then they began negotiating in earnest.

Heather Lindsley’s stories appeared in
Asimov’s, F&SF, Strange Horizons, Year’s Best Science Fiction #1 and 2
, and the anthologies
Brave New Worlds
and
The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination
. She lives in London, but can still do her original Valley Girl accent if sufficiently motivated by the right beverage.

By Michelle Ann King

As a life coach, Abby Fowler strongly discouraged magical thinking. It was better for people to take responsibility for improving their lives, rather than wait and hope for supernatural assistance. Better, and a lot more reliable.

So Abby would never advise anyone to use a spell, even one that came with impeccable provenance and the crackle of real power in every square inch of the ancient parchment it was inscribed on. Even one that was purely for divination, nothing more than a harmless bit of information-gathering that might, say, help someone with preparing a five-year business plan for their coaching practice in order to apply for a bank loan. She would never advise it because she knew that kind of thing never ended well.

“So it’s do as I say rather than do as I do, is it?” said the figure that appeared in her client chair between one blink and the next. “Hi. I’m Sharon, and I’ll be your omniscient supernatural assistant today.”

“Shit,” Abby said. “I mean—” she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I think there’s been a mistake.”

Sharon leaned forward and peered at the spell sitting on the desk. “Paperwork looks in order to me.”

“That?” Abby said. She slid the parchment under a client file. “I thought that was a recipe for moisturising cream.”

Sharon rubbed her thumb over the ring in her lower lip. “You do know the meaning of the word omniscient, don’t you?” She shook her head. “You, of all people, trying to get a sneak peek. Tut, tut.”

A copy of Abby’s book flew from the stack on the display stand and landed in Sharon’s hand. She turned it over and read from the back cover. “Abby Fowler will teach you to stop worrying about the future and have faith in your ability to cope with whatever may happen.”

Abby sighed. “Thank you, yes. I know the meaning of the word irony, too.”

“Okay, let’s crack on, then, shall we?” Sharon closed her eyes. “Joe Callaghan is going to ring up in a minute and ask if you can fit him in this afternoon. He’s distraught because despite being genuinely good at his job and having doubled his efficiency using your time management techniques, he’s been passed over for promotion again.”

“Er—”

“He’s starting to think it must be personal, that his boss resents him. And he’s absolutely right, because subconsciously Joe reminds her of a cousin who used to piss in her bed when they were kids. So it honestly doesn’t matter how good Joe is, it’s never going to happen, and he’d be better off cutting his losses and getting another job.” She leaned back in the chair. “How was that? Pretty good, right? You don’t get that sort of granular detail with goat entrails and tarot cards.”

In the outer office, the phone rang. A few seconds later, the door opened and Donna poked her head around it. “That was Joe Callaghan, Abby, he wants to know if—oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had a client with you. I’ll tell him you’re busy.”

She withdrew, and Abby laid her hands flat on the desk. “I’m sorry, I really think this was a mistake.”

“Don’t you mean learning experience?” Sharon opened the book. “It says here—”

Abby pinched the bridge of her nose. “Right, yes. Absolutely. And what I have learned from this experience is that I should take my own advice. So let’s just forget all about it. I release you from any obligation. You can go. Sorry for any inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience, no obligation. I like having something to do.” Sharon put her hands behind her head and grinned. “You have no idea how hard it can be, as an immortal, omnipotent being, to occupy your time after the first few billion millennia. Everything starts to get a bit samey, you know? Creation, destruction, wars, lovers, children, pets—” she paused and held up a finger. “You haven’t got any pets, have you? I’ll sort that out for you—every sentient being ought to have a pet of some kind. I’ve got just the thing, you’ll love it. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so all the big spectacle stuff starts to wear a bit thin after a while. That’s why I thought I’d try a more intimate approach. Like I said, it’s the granular detail that makes the difference.” She looked around. “You could do with a bigger window in here, don’t you think? Get a bit more light.”

The left-hand wall of the office shimmered, faded and became glass. “Although it’s a bit low to the ground. A higher elevation would be better. Hold on to something, we’re going up.”

Abby grabbed her desk as the building instantaneously gained thirty floors.

“Maybe a few more,” Sharon said, and they shot up again. The wall behind Abby became glass, too.

Sharon pointed over her shoulder. “There. You can see the London Eye, now. See? Over there? That’s much—”

“Stop,” Abby said, her voice muffled as she clamped her palm over her mouth. She didn’t turn around. “Stop.”

“Okay, maybe that’ll do for now, then.” Sharon patted Abby’s shoulder. “You take it easy for a bit, sort out poor old Joe Callaghan. I’ll go and see what else needs doing.”

“What? No,” Abby said. “Wait, I don’t—”

But Sharon was gone.

“Shit,” Abby said, and let her head drop. After a while, she grabbed a packet of aspirin from her desk drawer and reached for her water glass. Between lifting it from the desk and putting it to her lips, the liquid turned red and the aroma of a full-bodied Shiraz caught in her nostrils. She put it down again, untouched.

She grabbed her jacket, told Donna she was taking the rest of the day off and went down in the newly-created elevator to the car park. Her Volvo wasn’t where she’d left it. Instead, the space was taken up by a sleek Ferrari in a shade of purple that exactly matched Sharon’s hair. When Abby opened her bag, she found the car keys inside.

She left the Ferrari where it was and took the bus home.

Where she found the car—or an exact replica—waiting in her driveway. It had a big white ribbon wrapped around it and tied in a bow.

“Shit,” she said.

Paul opened the door while she was still standing on the step and staring at the car. He whistled. “I’m guessing you have an extremely grateful—and extremely rich—client?”

“It’s a little misunderstanding,” Abby said.

He grinned. “Well, do you reckon I can take that misunderstanding for a spin before you clear it up?”

“No,” she said, and hustled him inside.

He went to the window and gave the car one last longing look, then turned around. “Okay, so do you——” he broke off. “Um, Abby? What’s that?”

She looked up and saw him staring at her bag, which she’d dropped on the sofa. “What’s what?”

“That,” he said, pointing.

The bag made a chirping noise, then a small creature shot out and jumped into Abby’s arms. She shrieked.

It was a bit smaller than a cat, with white fur and a flat face that had large eyes and pointed, oversized ears. It reminded her of a cross between an owl and something she’d seen in a Disney film once. That one had been blue, and possibly an alien.

“That’s—wow,” Paul said. “What is that?”

The creature settled into the crook of Abby’s elbow and chirped happily, paws kneading the material of her coat. It waved its ears at Paul.

Abby swallowed hard. “Prototype,” she said faintly. “One of my new clients, er, works for a toy firm. Research and development. She wanted me to test it.”

Paul took a step forward and peered at it. “Really? My god, it’s brilliant. My sister’s kids would love one for Christmas. Are they expensive?”

“I don’t think they’ve set a price yet,” Abby said.

The creature began to sing in a high-pitched, trilling warble. “I’ll just put it away for now,” she said. “Maybe take the batteries out.”

The creature gave her wide eyes and clamped its mouth shut. Abby carried it into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. “What the hell?” she said.

The creature flicked its ears, jumped out of her arms and onto the bed, where it grabbed the television remote.

Abby watched it channel surf for a while, before it decided on an episode of Man v. Food and settled back against the pillow. Adam Richman was attempting to eat a pizza that was twice the size of his head. The creature chittered approvingly.

“I need a drink,” Abby said, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the creature was sticking a very long, very black tongue into a champagne flute and holding a second glass out to her. She caught a glimpse of small, sharp-looking teeth.

Abby hesitated, then took the glass and drained the contents in one go.

She sat on the bed and tentatively reached out a hand. The creature sniffed it, then rubbed its head against it.

“So,” she said. “This is happening, then.”

Abby’s glass filled itself up. She emptied it again. “I just wanted to know if the bank were going to approve my loan, that was all. And now I’ve summoned a—what? A genie? A demon? A goddess?”

The creature grinned at her, tongue lolling over those tiny pointed teeth.

Abby lay down on the bed and put her hands over her face. The creature snuggled up next to her and licked her cheek affectionately.

IN THE MORNING, FROM the perspective of ten hours sleep and a slight hangover, the previous day felt like a strange, hallucinatory dream. This thought—disturbing and comforting in roughly equal measure—sustained Abby through her shower and the morning papers, while Paul made a pot of coffee and Belgian waffles with raspberries and mascarpone. Until her furry houseguest dropped from the ceiling fan, where it had apparently been roosting, onto her head.

“Oh, that’s where it got to,” Paul said, putting a plate of waffles in front of her. “I was wondering. You’ve got to get a couple for the kids, Abby. You’d get a discount, wouldn’t you?”

The creature sniffed at her waffles, then picked up the plate, unhinged its jaw and tipped the whole lot inside. It swallowed, burped and beamed at her.

Paul came back with coffee. “Wow, someone’s hungry. Want some more?”

“No, thanks,” Abby said. “I should get going. There’s someone I need to get hold of this morning. Urgently.”

“Okay,” he said, and dropped a kiss on the back of her neck. “I’ll see you later.”