Unidentified Funny Objects 2 by Robert Silverberg, Jim C. Hines, Jody Lynn Nye, Mike Resnick, Ken Liu, Tim Pratt, Esther Frisner Page B
Authors: Robert Silverberg, Jim C. Hines, Jody Lynn Nye, Mike Resnick, Ken Liu, Tim Pratt, Esther Frisner
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reporter spoke up, and Stranger stifled a groan. Thomas T. Thorton had always hated him, producing story after story that warned against the dangers of letting a superpowered alien walk among good, decent human beings. “Do they talk to you?”
“Don’t let him make you nervous. It helps if you imagine every microphone is actually an enormous dildo.”
“The primary tumor does, yes,” said Stranger. “What it doesn’t do is shut up.”
“In other words,” Thorton continued, “you’re officially talking out of your—”
Stranger’s silent command caused the microphone—dammit, now he was visualizing dildos—to twist out of Thorton’s grip. As the microphone tumbled to the grass, it spoke in a tinny voice only Stranger could hear. “Sorry about that, sir. He’s just digging for snappy one-liners. He’s worried your cancer will make you more sympathetic to his audience, and his ratings will drop.”
By the time Thorton recovered, Kelly Kane from the Lake City Sentinel had stood to ask, “What treatment options are you exploring?”
The sensors in his mask allowed Stranger to see the heat in her neck and cheeks, though she kept her expression professional. For ten years she had been a friend. She wanted to be more, and perhaps they could have been, if Stranger had found human females the slightest bit attractive. Only two breasts? And on the chest, of all places?
He had explained his powers to Kelly in their first interview, how he could whisper to objects in his native tongue and persuade them to obey his wishes. That was the night she gave him his superhero name, after an old Robert Heinlein novel. Heinlein’s stranger in a strange land didn’t have super-strength or invulnerability, but the name worked well enough.
“After consulting with Doctor Y, I’ve chosen to discontinue treatment.”
His words stunned the crowd into silence.
“That’s right, baby!” the tumor crowed. “Get me a cape and mask. Me and my minions are invincible!”
He wanted to pull Kelly aside, to apologize for… he wasn’t sure what, exactly. For having cancer? Why should he feel guilty about that?
“Ha! I may be a lowly butt tumor, but that doesn’t mean I can’t mess with your mind.”
Eventually, Kelly whispered, “How long?”
“Tell her it’s not the length that matters, it’s how—”
“According to Professor Edison, six months, one week, and three days.” Trust the man who could peek through time to eliminate any ambiguity about your prognosis.
“How could this happen?” asked another reporter. She sounded affronted, as if Stranger’s disease caused her great personal offense. “You’re supposed to be invulnerable.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the times I’ve been shot by death rays, gamma beams, laser weapons, and worse. Not to mention disarming nuclear weapons, flying toxic waste into the sun, and spending ten years on this planet eating food whose compatibility with my biology is iffy on the best of days. Seriously, what do you people put into those microwave burritos?”
“Will your tumor take questions?” asked Thorton.
“Ooh! Tell him I’ll give him an exclusive, but only if I get approval on any photos. Maybe he could use the colonoscopy shot from three weeks ago? Or do you think I looked too puffy in that shot?”
The radio built into Stranger’s helmet saved him from having to answer. “I’m sorry, I have to go. It seems that Scaramouche has escaped from Edgewood Asylum. Again.”
Thank the gods. He spoke to the air around him. Wind filled his cape, giving it a dramatic flutter. The air became his elevator, cradling his body and lifting him up and away.
He missed his old skintight costume, feeling the warmth of this world’s sun on his body, the air rushing past as he flew—
“Quit your bitching. I live where the sun never shines, remember? And the only time I feel the wind is when you break it.”
“EDGEWOOD ASYLUM IS THE dumbest institution on the
“Don’t let him make you nervous. It helps if you imagine every microphone is actually an enormous dildo.”
“The primary tumor does, yes,” said Stranger. “What it doesn’t do is shut up.”
“In other words,” Thorton continued, “you’re officially talking out of your—”
Stranger’s silent command caused the microphone—dammit, now he was visualizing dildos—to twist out of Thorton’s grip. As the microphone tumbled to the grass, it spoke in a tinny voice only Stranger could hear. “Sorry about that, sir. He’s just digging for snappy one-liners. He’s worried your cancer will make you more sympathetic to his audience, and his ratings will drop.”
By the time Thorton recovered, Kelly Kane from the Lake City Sentinel had stood to ask, “What treatment options are you exploring?”
The sensors in his mask allowed Stranger to see the heat in her neck and cheeks, though she kept her expression professional. For ten years she had been a friend. She wanted to be more, and perhaps they could have been, if Stranger had found human females the slightest bit attractive. Only two breasts? And on the chest, of all places?
He had explained his powers to Kelly in their first interview, how he could whisper to objects in his native tongue and persuade them to obey his wishes. That was the night she gave him his superhero name, after an old Robert Heinlein novel. Heinlein’s stranger in a strange land didn’t have super-strength or invulnerability, but the name worked well enough.
“After consulting with Doctor Y, I’ve chosen to discontinue treatment.”
His words stunned the crowd into silence.
“That’s right, baby!” the tumor crowed. “Get me a cape and mask. Me and my minions are invincible!”
He wanted to pull Kelly aside, to apologize for… he wasn’t sure what, exactly. For having cancer? Why should he feel guilty about that?
“Ha! I may be a lowly butt tumor, but that doesn’t mean I can’t mess with your mind.”
Eventually, Kelly whispered, “How long?”
“Tell her it’s not the length that matters, it’s how—”
“According to Professor Edison, six months, one week, and three days.” Trust the man who could peek through time to eliminate any ambiguity about your prognosis.
“How could this happen?” asked another reporter. She sounded affronted, as if Stranger’s disease caused her great personal offense. “You’re supposed to be invulnerable.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the times I’ve been shot by death rays, gamma beams, laser weapons, and worse. Not to mention disarming nuclear weapons, flying toxic waste into the sun, and spending ten years on this planet eating food whose compatibility with my biology is iffy on the best of days. Seriously, what do you people put into those microwave burritos?”
“Will your tumor take questions?” asked Thorton.
“Ooh! Tell him I’ll give him an exclusive, but only if I get approval on any photos. Maybe he could use the colonoscopy shot from three weeks ago? Or do you think I looked too puffy in that shot?”
The radio built into Stranger’s helmet saved him from having to answer. “I’m sorry, I have to go. It seems that Scaramouche has escaped from Edgewood Asylum. Again.”
Thank the gods. He spoke to the air around him. Wind filled his cape, giving it a dramatic flutter. The air became his elevator, cradling his body and lifting him up and away.
He missed his old skintight costume, feeling the warmth of this world’s sun on his body, the air rushing past as he flew—
“Quit your bitching. I live where the sun never shines, remember? And the only time I feel the wind is when you break it.”
“EDGEWOOD ASYLUM IS THE dumbest institution on the
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