Designated Observer Krnthp

"Remember," Grnthk brained, "in an emergency, you can pull the eject cord." Krnthp brained back assent. The aliens had done their research. Their observation suit mimicked the most common human form, determined through study of their picture waves. Designated as observer, Krnthp studied human stories until Krnthp fully understood their society. That exhausting process took hours.

Krnthp appeared in the globe's most important city, and Krnthp began observing the natives. They were friendly. Some asked for photos with Krnthp, some for Krnthp to write a name on paper. Those seemed confused afterward. One group invited Krnthp to go drinking, and Krnthp went with them.

At the recreational drinking room, everyone was friendly. More people asked for a written name and left confused. Several child-bearers asked what Krnthp was doing later.

One pulled Krnthp into a waste chamber and pressed Krnthp against a wall. "Is this a robbery?" Krnthp asked. She laughed, then reached into Krnthp's pants and pulled the eject cord.

She screamed and screamed. Not surprising, since she'd just watched Brad Pitt launch his brain across the room and collapse in the toilet.

Krnthp's last thought before smashing into the wall at lethal speeds was "How did it know?"

Just Chairs and Tables

"Welcome to Just Chairs and Tables, sir." The clean-cut sales rep smiled. "Just with chairs and tables, I presume?"

"That's correct," she said. "If it's a chair or a table, we have it. If it isn't, we don't."

"So, if I need, say, a buffet..."

"You're out of luck, sir."

"Or an endtable?"

"Try Everything Table-Like down the street."

"How about stools?"

"No stools."

"Not even barstools?"

"Not even."

"What if it's a barstool shaped like a chair?"

"Depends. Is it a barstool, or is it a chair?"

"Barstool."

"Afraid not."

"A chair shaped like a barstool?"

"Those're in stock."

"Or a table shaped like a buffet?"

"Just got in a shipment."

"Or... a chair shaped like a table?"

"We have a wide selection, sir."

The customer scratched his nose in thought. "So, what about a chair shaped like a functional Rolls Royce Silver Ghost?"

She tapped the computer. "Mmm, I'm afraid those are on backorder. Would you like me to see how long the wait is?"

"No, thanks. Maybe... a table that is a living person, someone I could love and who could love me?"

"That'd be custom, sir. Would you like me to refer you to a specialist?"

Door to Door

Pam answered her door to find two men in cheap suits outside. One was taller, and the other was blond, but they were otherwise very alike. The taller one raised his hat. "Afternoon ma'am. Hambly Rockhart with Nelson Cleaners." He lifted a vacuum. "I expect you already have a vacuum, but I assure you it's a child's toy beside a Nelson. May I give you a demonstration?"

Pam looked at the blond man. "Are you from Nelson, too?"

"No, ma'am." He smiled. "We just arrived at the same time. I'll wait my turn."

Pam let Rockhart in and he proceeded with the demonstration. He stomped a bunch of dirt into the rug and followed it up with flour and water, making a thick, gooey mud. "You might think this is never coming out," he said, "but wait! The Nelson Cleaner is a wonder." The cleaner roared to life, but pass after pass only spread the mess around.

Angry, she kicked him and his vacuum out. The blond man watched him go. "I see you're not in the mood for another pitch, but I have been waiting."

Pam grumbled, but relented. "What're you selling?"

He opened his book of samples. "Carpeting."

Silhouetting the Moonlight

The vampire had been hunting him across the city. It knew his tricks. Every time he tried to get away, the monster's thralls cut him off. Cranes silhouetting the moonlight, they drove him into the industrial district, where no one would find him for months. Years, if the vampire owned a construction company. He stopped in a twenty-four-hour corner market, possibly the last bastion of light between him and the trap. He came out swigging bourbon. Ten stumbly minutes later, the beast confronted him in a trainyard, thralls crowded around.

"Gave up, did you?" The vampire's voice was oil slick.

He smiled. "If I gotta go, might as well go happy."

"You're ready to die, then?"

"Ready when you—ha!" He threw the bulb of garlic he'd concealed in his sleeve. It bounced off the vampire's face.

"Really?" The creature sounded disappointed. Then it was on him, teeth tearing, drinking deep. Red-faced, it grinned. "Your blood is..." The grin faltered. "It's..." The beast fell to its knees.

"That wasn't the only bulb of garlic I got, sweet cheeks. You'da smelled 'em if you bothered to breathe." The vampire retched. Before its thralls could move, he unsheathed a stake and finished it.

This Pine Cone

Daniel planted the pine cone on the edge of their yard and checked it daily until a tiny sapling sprouted from the ground. Two years he watched it grow before the steel company bought their land for a new plant. The landscapers thought the young tree on the edge of the property looked environmentally friendly, so they added a hundred matching trees. When Daniel started working there four years later, he still recognized his tree, just a little less regular than the nursery-bought trees. In case he forgot, he marked it with his initials. Ten years he worked there, and he never failed to stop by the tree each day.

Economic depression shut the plant down, then economic collapse made a ghost out of the town. Daniel sheltered in the plant, a place he knew well with enough space for his friends and family to squat. When winter came, they cut the trees for warmth, but never Daniel's tree.

After five years and a hard harvest, they needed the wood. Daniel cut down the tree he'd planted over twenty years before, burning it branch by branch. When he reached the bottom, he found his initials. That piece, he kept.

Zero Murders

A man and a woman sat in a room on two secondhand chairs, waiting for a phone to ring. Apart from the chairs, the people, and the phone, the room was empty. The man nodded at the woman. "How many people you murdered?"

"Murdered? Why'd you say murdered?" She looked at him hard enough to groove stone.

"'Cause that's what we do, yeah? Murder people?" He pulled back his coat and gestured at the shoulder holster.

"Not me," she said. "Sure, I kill, but I don't murder."

"How many, then?"

"Seven. Zero murders."

"In this business? How d'you figure?"

"See, I don't just kill someone, right?" She pulled out her gun and pointed it at him. "I do this. When they pull a piece or grab a knife or something and come at me, it's self defense."

"Bullshit. You started it."

"'Snot bullshit, dickhead. It's law. I'm guilty of assault, right, pointing the gun, but when they attack me, I'm doing self defense."

"Whatever."

"Not whatever. I'm right. Say I'm right."

"No, you're fucking wrong."

"You just call me a fucker?" She stood, still pointing the gun at him.

"I didn't call you anything, bitch, sit down."

"Oh, I'm a bitch now, huh? You better apologize. Now."

"No fucking way, you crazy—" Her gunshot took him by surprise. He stared down at the blood spreading across his shirt, then her second shot took his surprise away. She reached into his jacket and put his gun in his hand.

"Now it's eight and zero, dickhead."

Broadening Certain Life Experiences

"Really?" Nome said. "So now you're just sticking an egg beater into the space-time continuum and scrambling it?" "No!" Arkady flipped her long blond hair back and pulled on her goggles. "No, no, no, kind of, yeah, probably." She moved next to the elevator-sized metal artichoke that tied loops in the fourth dimension. "More like I'm... broadening certain historical figures' life experiences. Making them more worldly. That can't be bad, right?" The artichoke began to hum.

"Why?" Nome hurried into her goggles. With her short brown hair, it took much less effort. "Give me some mathematical reason why that can't be bad."

"Shrug."

"Did you just say 'shrug?'"

The machine flashed, then flashed again. Arkady had disappeared between flashes, and she reappeared with a large, Scandinavian man. "Sorry, I had to pick up Leif Eriksson from 900 AD Egypt." The man handed her a bag, then she fiddled with the artichoke and he disappeared. "Huh, citrus." She blinked, then picked up a knife from her workbench and started fiddling with the fruit.

"You're done, right? This is it? The last... are you even listening?"

"Are you still lecturing?"

"Yeah."

"Then no." Arkady kept on with the knife.

"What are you doing?" Nome looked over Arkady's shoulder, her frustration tempered by curiosity.

"Taa-daa!" Arkady held up a yellow face carved into a rough likeness of Abraham Lincoln. "Look! It even has a little stovepipe!" She plonked a yellow hat on top.

Nome followed her over to the machine. "What are you doing?"

"Sending it to the 1860 White House." Flash, and it was gone.

"But why?"

Arkady looked at Nome like she was dull. "When Leif gives you lemons, make Lemon Abe."

It was all Nome could do not to punch her.

For more Nome and Arkady, read "Perfectly Justified Response" at Daily Science Fiction!