Unidentified funny objec.., p.1
Unidentified Funny Objects 6, page 1
Unidentified Funny Objects 6
Edited by Alex Shvartsman
PUBLISHED BY:
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UFO Publishing
1685 E 15th St.
Brooklyn, NY 11229
www.ufopub.com
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Copyright © 2017 by UFO Publishing
Stories copyright © 2017 by the authors
Trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-9992690-0-8
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All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
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Cover art: Tomasz Maronski
Interior art: Barry Munden
Typesetting & interior design: Melissa Neely
Graphics design: Emerson Matsuuchi
Logo design: Martin Dare
Copy editor: Elektra Hammond
Associate editors: Cyd Athens, James Beamon, Frank Dutkiewicz, Nathaniel Lee, James A. Miller
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Visit us on the web
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Contents
Foreword
A Game of Goblins
The Breakdown of the Parasite/Host Relationship
From This She Makes a Living?
Twenty-Nine Responses to Inquiries about my Craigslist Post: Alien Spaceship for sale. $200, you haul.
Tyler the Snot Elemental Scours the Newspaper, Searching for Change
Agent of Chaos
Display of Affection
The Great Manhattan Eat-Off
An Evil Opportunity Employer
Common Scents
A Mountain Man and a Cat Walk Into a Bar….
Lost and Found
A Crawlspace Full of Prizes
Return To Sender
The Friendly Necromancer
An Open Letter to the Sentient AI Who Has Announced Its Intention to Take Over the Earth
Approved Expense
Alexander Outland: Space Jockey
Dear Joyce
Impress Me, Then We'll Talk About The Money
Acknowledgments
About the Editor
Foreword
Alex Shvartsman
This year's installment of the annual Unidentified Funny Objects series features cranky goblin cooks and lecherous space pirates, soul-searching snot elementals and disagreeable alien symbiotes. New characters from fresh voices in the speculative genre appear alongside iconic stalwarts of humorous SF/F such as Alan Dean Foster's Mad Amos and Mike Resnick's Harry the Book. Wacky settings and unusual characters are the norm for the series, but there's something else commonly present in each UFO volume, and that's an abundance of epistolary fiction.
The traditional definition of an epistolary story is a literary work written in the form of letters. (Think Bram Stoker's Dracula.) Over time the definition has expanded to include all forms of documents, such as Charlie's progress reports in Daniel Keyes's Flowers for Algernon or the alien invasion tale told through a Twitter feed from Jake Kerr's story in the inaugural volume of UFO.
This book includes a higher-than-usual percentage of such stories. Our authors spin their tales through advice columns, chat transcripts, Craigslist posts, footnotes, and, of course, actual letters—be they correspondence between giants or an entreaty to an ascendant AI overlord. I've often wondered whether the prominence of epistolary stories in my anthologies is due to personal preference (I enjoy unorthodox storytelling both as a reader and as a writer) or because such formats are especially well-suited for humor, and more so for the unusual, unidentifiable sort of humor I seek for this series.
I'm of the opinion that the story format is just another tool in the writer's arsenal. It can enhance the story as much as a unique voice or an unexpected setting. Will you reach a similar conclusion? I invite you to delve right into this book and find out for yourself.
Happy reading!
A Game of Goblins
Jim C. Hines
Golaka never intended to marry. She certainly never intended to marry a human.
She was in the midst of slow-roasting a halfling with peppercorn and chunks of wild apple when the screaming began.
Cries of "Humans!" and "Kill them all!" and "Run away!" echoed through the obsidian tunnels beyond the lair. Golaka ignored them. If the goblin guards killed the humans, it meant more meat for her stores. If the humans killed some goblins, it meant fewer mouths to feed.
The humans won. Like they usually did. Golaka heard panicked goblins retreating into the cavernous lair. They slid a heavy door of lashed-together pine logs to block the tunnel behind them. Mild curiosity made her swivel her ears to listen.
"These humans are terrifying," gasped one of the guards who'd presumably survived through the proud goblin tradition of running away and leaving his companions to die. "Grim and dark, with eyes like fire and hearts of ice."
"I thought it was the other way around," said another.
A new voice, this one human, thundered from the tunnels. "I seek the lord of the goblins!"
"Seek quietly," Golaka yelled back. "Some of us are trying to cook!"
After a brief pause, the human continued. "I am the Wolf of the Winterlands, heir to the Onyx Throne."
"They have a talking wolf," whispered a different goblin.
"Someone tell the chief a wolf wants to talk to him," said the guard.
Golaka grabbed her cleaver from the counter, just in case.
"Open this door, and I will spare your miserable lives," the human continued. "Refuse, and suffer a massacre to rival the morning every man, woman, and child of House Brionnen was slaughtered over poached quail eggs. Even you savages must have heard stories of the Red Brunch."
"What's a brunch?" the guard retorted.
Axes thunked into the makeshift door.
"Wait!" screamed at least a half-dozen goblins. Being goblin-built, the door wouldn't have lasted long anyway. Wood scraped over stone as they struggled to open the door again.
Golaka tested the edge of her cleaver and stepped forward for a better view. Five humans stood at the entrance to the lair. Trail dust and weariness darkened their faces. Four held heavy crossbows ready to shoot. The fifth stood with sword in one hand, a flickering torch in the other.
Goblins backed away, their own shoddy weapons shaking. One flattened his ears in fear as Golaka stood on her toes to try to see past the humans. "Where's the wolf?"
"I am Samuel Loncaster, Wolf of House Loncaster, bastard son of Ryan Loncaster, the Shadow Viper of the north." The human with the sword was tall and meaty, dressed in black leather and black furs. His black hair was shaggy and windsnarled, his young, stubbled face callused like bad leather.
Another goblin cocked her head, her blue face crinkled with confusion. "If your father's a snake, how can you be a wolf?"
Samuel ignored the question. "I would summon your leader to the Conclave."
"Our leader's sleeping off a klak beer hangover," said the goblin guard.
"Is a Conclave like a brunch?" asked another.
The humans muttered amongst themselves. Samuel rubbed his brow. "Once every ten years, the lords of the north gather at Conclave to try to choose a high king to sit upon the Onyx Throne and rule the Army of Immortals."
"An onyx throne?" Golaka muttered. "Sounds like a bad case of arse blisters waiting to happen."
The human was still going on. "For a century, each vote has ended in stalemate. My father would have been the first Loncaster to sit upon the throne, but he was betrayed and murdered on the Night of Twelve Blades. I mean to fulfill his destiny and restore our House."
"Goblins aren't very good at building," said a goblin. "If you want to fix a house, you should talk to the dwarves."
The human stared, like he was trying to decide whether the goblins were mocking him, or if they were simply idiots. Golaka could have answered that one.
"This was a mistake," Samuel said at last. "The Conclave will never take these blue-skinned imbeciles seriously."
"A suggestion, my lord." One of the guards, a scarred man missing several teeth, stepped forward to whisper to Samuel, too quiet even for goblin ears to overhear.
Whatever he said made Samuel's face turn red. "Are you mad?"
"It would give the delegate legitimacy."
Samuel growled and studied each goblin in turn, until his gaze fell on Golaka. Those tiny human eyes widened. "You, old woman—" He hesitated. "You are a woman?"
Golaka bared her fangs. The goblins skittered back in alarm.
"You will come with me," Samuel continued. "As delegate of the goblins."
"I will garnish tonight's dinner with your liver is what I'll do." Golaka raised her cleaver.
"You don't frighten us, monster," said Samuel, though the way the guards shifted and pointed their weapons at her gave lie to his words. "I fought and killed the Boulder himself in the Courts of Farathun. My men can kill you where you stand—and slaughter your fellow goblins for good measure—or you can accompany me to the Conclave. Once I sit upon the Onyx Throne, you'll be free to return to this dark, filthy cave you call home."
Golaka narrowed her eyes. Four crossbows and a sword against one cleaver. "That's it? Cast a vote and go?"
Samuel's thin lips twitched. "There's also a minor ceremony . . ."
They rode throughout the day—the humans on thick, meaty horses, and Golaka on a mule whose spine seemed honed to split a goblin's backside. Dinner was tasteless jerky, tasteless bread, and cheese that made her wish for tastelessness.
Afterward, the scarred guard pulled Golaka aside while the other humans made camp. With him was Samuel and a thin, bare-faced human with clenched fists.
Samuel pulled a length of white rope from a pouch at his belt. "This is Chale Loncaster, the Hummingbird of House Loncaster."
"Hummingbird?" asked Golaka.
"He likes to hum." Samuel knotted one end of the rope around Chale's wrist.
"Father would behead you himself for this insult," hissed Chale.
Samuel merely smiled and extended the rope toward Golaka.
"Try to leash me to that human, and I'll pull out your intestines and hang you with them."
Now it was Samuel's turn to scowl, while Chale smirked. The guard whispered something to Samuel, who shoved him away.
"Very well." Samuel dropped the rope, letting it hang like a snake from Chale's hand. "Let this betrothal mark the alliance between House Loncaster and the goblins. Thomas Smoke, will you witness this contract?"
The guard squared his shoulders. "I so witness."
Samuel pulled a knife and cut away most of the rope, leaving the loop knotted around Chale's wrist. "You'll sleep there tonight," he said, pointing to a small tent the color of human blood.
Golaka shrugged and ducked through the tent flap. Two battered sleeping mats lay on the ground. She sat down on one and scratched. The journey had left her stiff, sore, and sweaty in any number of cracks and crevices.
Chale and Thomas followed her in. Chale pulled a knife, watching Golaka closely.
"You think that toy would stop me if I wanted your guts for a late-night snack?" Golaka shifted to one side, farted loudly, then raked her hair back from her face. "I'm not going to kill you, human. Least, not while we're surrounded by your brother's guards."
Slowly, he lowered his weapon. "What makes you think the knife was for you? I'm the one Samuel betrothed to a goblin."
"You're not exactly a prize for me either, Human." Golaka lay back on the mat.
He sighed. "This is but the latest insult my brother has heaped upon me."
"So go out there and stab him in the face."
"That's not how things are done, Goblin. This is a civilized gathering."
"Fine, stab him in the back." Golaka shrugged. "All this fuss over a stupid chair."
"Whoever is chosen to sit upon the Onyx Throne will command the Army of Immortals," Chale said stiffly. "The houses have played this game for centuries, but none have gathered enough votes to claim the throne."
"Humans always complicate things." She closed her eyes. "I assume your brother plans to kill me when this is over? Or is it more 'civilized' if this guard does it?"
"Thomas is only here as part of the betrothal ceremony. To . . ." Chale's voice sounded strained. "To protect the virginity of the bride-to-be."
Golaka opened one eye. "That meal was eaten years ago."
"What a vulgar figure of speech," Chale said.
"What makes you think it's a figure of speech?" With a chuckle, Golaka rolled over to sleep.
They arrived early the next day at the Wall of the Dead, site of the Conclave. The wall was a once-mighty edifice of dark stone, thirty feet tall, encircling what Chale described as a plain of petrified trees and a lone crypt.
Gray drizzle turned the ground to mud. A large, open pavilion had been erected outside the wall, near an enormous rusted gate. Golaka counted at least thirty humans gathered in small groups, some within the pavilion, others standing close by. A stout man with a round face, curly gray beard, and flat cap was cooking porridge—burning porridge, from the smell—over a fire.
"Each House can send up to six people," explained Chale. "Advisors, guards . . . assassins. More Houses will arrive throughout the day."
Golaka rubbed her arms against the chill. She was used to the rippling heat of the cook fires back home.
The cook looked up at their contingent and shouted, "Gorge!"
Golaka stopped. "I don't understand."
"That's Gorge. It's all he ever says. He's damaged in the head. He has no loyalty to any House, so he's the only person everyone trusts to cook for them."
Golaka sniffed again. "You call that cooking?"
Samuel strode ahead, calling greetings to some, while pointedly ignoring others.
"That's Marguerite of House Crowley," whispered Chale, pointing to a short, brown-skinned woman. Tufts of white down clung to her hair and cloak. "She was flung naked from the cliffs of Saint Ives for unlawful fornication. She returned two days later atop a hippogriff. The hippogriff bit off her husband's head. She married her lover the next day, naming her queen at her side. She's called the Hippogriff Queen, Mother of the North, and the Bringer of Stormclouds."
"That's a mouthful," said Golaka.
Chale gestured next to an older man, pale with a wispy white beard. "Laurence of House Ashcroft, known as the Night Dagger. He's a member of the ancient Night Bears sect. Six years ago, he orchestrated the Blood Moon Massacre that led to the downfall of House Whitlatch."
"You humans collect names like ogres collect lice." Golaka shut him out, mentally renaming each human things she'd remember: Feather Lady, Graybeard, and so on. The head of House Hollister was One Eye. She'd killed her predecessor by forcing him to drink molten lead. Her husband was Nose-Picker. House Larch was led by Gap-Tooth, who was known for using hunting ravens with poisoned talons against his enemies.
All Golaka cared about was keeping them from killing her. Judging from the way they stared, that might be tricky.
"What is this, Samuel?" demanded Feather Lady. "If you've brought this creature to feed to my pets, I'm afraid it will take a higher quality of snack to earn my favor."
Samuel puffed up like a lizard-fish trying to mate. He'd obviously been planning for this moment, probably practicing exactly what he'd say once the eyes of the Conclave were upon him. "This is—"
"Golaka," she cut in. "Called the Goblin Chef. Cooker of Humans."
"She is the delegate for her people," Samuel continued, with a glare at Golaka. "The House of Goblins may be small . . . and foul . . . but—"
"Should House Larch now give a vote to our messenger ravens?" scoffed Gap-Tooth. "Perhaps the rats who raid Ashcroft's grain stores would like a say as well?"
Samuel's hand went to his sword, a movement that caused the rest of the humans to step back and reach for their own weapons. "She is my future sister-in-law, and I demand you apologize for your insult."
It was amusing to watch the humans' attention turn back to Golaka, then shift to Chale and the white rope around his wrist. Some smirked or chuckled. Others looked like they'd tried to get a bite of stew, only to find they'd dipped their spoons in the chamber pot by mistake.
"You'd tie your House to that creature?" asked Nose-Picker.
"Gorge!" added Gorge.
"The Army of Immortals has slept too long," Samuel said firmly. "They will awaken soon, with or without a ruler. If we don't end this stalemate—"
"House Hollister will never kneel to a Loncaster," pronounced One Eye. "We remember your grandfather's betrayal at the Battle of Four Fleets."
"Hollow words from a descendant of the Mantis," snapped Feather Lady.
Soon everyone was shouting, too loud and angry for Golaka to follow. She let it drag on until everyone was good and riled, then bellowed, "Whoever wins this vote becomes high king and sits on the rock throne and rules the dead army, yes?"
"Yes, that's so," snapped Samuel.
Golaka cocked her thumb at Samuel. "I'll vote for whoever kills this pile of pig dung."
The reaction was instant, but not what she'd expected. Whereas goblins would have immediately swarmed Samuel, the humans simply looked . . . bemused. All save Samuel, who was turning a vivid shade of red.
