Streetlights illuminated the red bricks of the dark alley with a sticky yellow neon glow. Empty whiskey bottles littered the ground between open trashcans filled with yesterday’s late-night specials from local restaurants. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I promised Alice, my assistant, noodles for dinner. Fortunately, my current client was also my favorite noodle chef. I was here to deliver his requested non- terrestrial spice for an upcoming special dinner service. Maybe I could convince him to throw in a couple of meals as a tip. Considering what I went through to get the pink powder in my coat jacket, a couple of free pho bowls was the least he could do.

Shadows darted between cardboard boxes and half- rusted dumpsters. My fingers brushed the handle of my turbo-carbine hand cannon in my pocket. After a moment of silence, I chalked up the movement to rats, robots, aliens, poltergeists, or something in the middle—never can tell in the twenty-second century world of Washington, DC.

I stepped over a still form lying beside several rolls of wool blankets and a torn plastic tent. He called himself Pops, at least that’s the name he gave me, and I often paid him to help me with my cases. For a pack of cigarettes, complete with lung healing nanites and vitamin packed nutrients that made a cigarette, formerly known as a cancer stick, healthier than a salad bowl with tofu, Pops would ask me whatever question I slipped him on a piece of paper. Odd thing to pay someone to do, I know, but when you wake up one day with the psychic ability to answer any question it’s not so crazy to have a Pops in your life. What can I say? It’s a strange universe, and I live at the corner of weird and impossible.

I rolled Pops on his back before propping him up against the wall. Dirt covered his hands and face nearly to the point of being a second skin. His clothes—a pair of blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a flannel coat—were pristine. Not a speck of dirt or a single thread out of place. Just a perk of alien technology. I laid a pack of cigarettes and matches on his coat. I could tell him later he owed me a question. He was a good guy, one of millions struggling to figure out how to live in this new modern world. And I have a soft spot for the downtrodden.

I approached the rear entrance to my favorite restaurant. Graffiti on the wall came to life beneath a flashing rusted lamp above a gray metal door. A dragon rose from the grays and breathed flame on a wizard who stood against the magnificent beast. The mouth of the fire-breathing serpent opened and closed in rhythm to the flickering bulb. I whistled at the talent of the artist, though he probably cheated with nanotech. Didn’t matter to me if he did. The effect was mesmerizing.

I knocked twice on the metal door and stepped backward. Never know when an overeager food runner might burst out for his smoke break. Behind me, bottles clanked together. I spared a glance over my shoulder and saw two glowing eyes rise from the shadows of a wall of newspapers and old cardboard boxes. I tipped my fedora, known throughout the galaxy as the equivalent of a friendly wave, and the orbs of light faded back into the darkness. Doubtless just a friend of Pops.

I gave the door another three knocks and checked my watch. I didn’t have a lot of time to wait. I had to meet Ambassador Kah at the Woodward and Lothrop warehouse, now the Galactic Embassy on Earth, before ten. It wasn’t far from here, but I still needed a good twenty minutes to cross town. One thing I learned the hard way in my line of work, never keep a two-ton alien dinosaur waiting. Not to mention that Kah had me over a barrel.

“Fritz, you in there? It’s me.” I adjusted my brown suit jacket and checked the contents in my pocket. Safe and ready for delivery.

Just as I turned to leave and walk to the front of Fritz’s restaurant, the door exploded outward, and a tentacle the size of a tree trunk burst into the alley. Slime flew from the explosive force and coated everything within ten feet, including me, with a thin glaze of alien gloop. I tried to mouth an expletive, but Fritz’s arm wrapped around my torso and squeezed the air out of my lungs. He lifted me a few feet off the asphalt and yanked me through the doorway. Another of his tentacles shot past, grabbed the handle, and slammed the metal door closed.

“Fri...tz, it’s...me,” I said between forced breaths.

Fritz, a member of the Orellian race, a species that resembled oversized octopi, wriggled inside a water tank the size of a Buick. Portholes along the side allowed his arms to extend into the kitchen and interact with...including, but not limited to frying pans, dishwasher nozzle, knife, cutting board, and me.

“Jack,” said a synthesized voice coming from a speaker in the ceiling. The Orellian race were an aquatic species from a world covered in the second spiral arm, and they didn’t have a larynx. Instead, evolution gifted them with excellent vision and chromatophores covering their bodies, allowing them to change their skin color at will, which they used to create a complex language. Cameras along the wall pointed at a shifting matrix of reds, blues, and yellows and interpreted the patterns into English, or whatever language Fritz wanted. Frankly, I didn’t need a computer to tell me Fritz was upset as he squeezed the life out of me.

“Can...you...let...me...go?” I asked.

The color on three of his arms changed to a light purple, and his grip relaxed. I coughed for half a minute before gulping in a few large breaths. I leaned against a stack of pots I had to catch and prevent from toppling over. Then I looked around for a glass of water. On my way to the sink, I picked up my fedora, knocked off my head by his yanking me through his doorway at extreme velocity, and I did my best to scrape off the lunchtime special from the brim.

“Sorry,” Fritz said through the speaker.

“It’s okay, but that will cost you an extra bibimbap.” I took another deep breath and tried to settle my nerves. Smells from the kitchen assaulted my hunger. Aromas of sautéed onions and roasting garlic filled the air. Spices from around the world, and most of the second spiral arm of our galaxy, mixed well with the fresh basil and bell peppers. My eyes wandered over the chopping board and found a nice bowl of olives. One of Fritz’s many arms swatted my hand, but I stole three nicely pitted Greek greens and a sprig of parsley. That’ll teach him.

“Have you acquired the rubber ducky?”

I grinned as I chewed on the olive. Even twenty- second century technology wasn’t immune to bugs. Granted, this tech came from aliens, but local humans installed the translator and updated the dictionary to speak in every language of Earth. But, interpreting the fast-paced visual signs of the Orellian was no small feat, and sometimes the technology got it wrong. Still, I knew what he meant.

“You need to tweak your interpreter software. Mind if I dry off? You got something to clean up all the slime on me?” I gave my jacket a few swipes with my free hand.

“Sorry,” he said again.

“It’s okay, Fritz. Really.”

He handed me a towel. Thick strands of gelatinous

gunk leapt off my wool suit and onto the specially made dishrag. Score one for technology on Orellian mucus cleaning. Normally, Fritz wasn’t so excited, but today my delivery had him bouncing off his tank. Imagine a French chef expecting the arrival of a fresh bag of black truffles. Now picture those mushrooms are the only ones left on Earth, and you just try to get out of the way of a culinary artist desperate for his ingredients.

“Better?” Fritz said.

“Yeah, swell.” I threw the towel into a laundry bin in the corner and took out a smoke.

“Spice?”

“I have it.” I tried to let the moment hang in the air, just like Pablo Ramsey, the famous actor who starred in detective movies from centuries ago, but I flubbed the timing. I was a private investigator in name only. Meaning I played the part more than knew what the hell I was doing. Still, it paid the bills and allowed me to slip by unnoticed as the gumshoe with the answers. So what if I cheat?

“Give.”

“You know what this stuff does to the human digestive track?”

“No,” Fritz said. As Fritz adjusted his position and flexed his thick, muscular tentacles, water splashed on the sides of the container that contained his bulk. Deep blues and a few shades of red flashed across his skin. Two arms shot out of the back end of his tank, causing me to flinch and take a step away. I relaxed when I saw him grab a stack of dirty plates from the lunch rush and begin scrubbing them in a large sink.

“Well, it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“I pay,” Fritz said through a flash of pink and green on his head.

“Yeah, but I’m not too keen on seeing half the city spending the next week relieving themselves. Doubt our sewage treatment plants could handle that level of a nightmare.”

“Not for humans,” Fritz said.

“I figured. But I need to know that you will keep this stuff safe. Even this small amount would be bad, Fritz. Real bad.”

Bright orange swirls followed by a deep purple slid across his thickest arm. I could tell he was getting upset. “You not police.”

I sighed. “This requires a specific food handling license. You have that?”

“No.”

“I don’t either. Which means neither one of us is allowed to have this.”

“Why bring?” Fritz said.

He had a good point. The reason? Fritz paid me. Questionable morality isn’t bad morality. Is it? Besides, the alien spice isn’t lethal, just more like industrial strength colon cleaner. Worst case scenario, the local health inspector would issue me a citation to never serve food as a professional. Seeing as I’ve never met a piece of toast I didn’t burn, society is safe on that score.

Before I could respond, the door to the dining hall and barroom swung open, and three men wearing server uniforms walked into the kitchen. They gave me a quick glance and a nod before heading to a set of lockers in the back. I recognized them but didn’t know their names. Fritz can be a taskmaster as head chef, and his staff doesn’t usually hang around long, most quitting after their first service.

“Hey Fritz, what’s good for dinner?” said one server.

“Why no noodles?” said another.

Fritz’s skin turned a light yellow. “Special guests.” The door to the dining room swung open again, as

Marissa, the hostess, walked into the kitchen. She surveyed the space in an instant, taking note of Fritz’s preparations, and took ownership of the room, throwing me a smile and the servers a stern nod. She exuded professionalism down to her very pores. Honestly, I was frankly flabbergasted that Fritz could hire someone as skilled as Marissa.

“Jack, what a surprise,” Marissa said. She gave me a European kiss on each cheek. Nice touch.

“Good to see you, Marissa.”

“Sorry to say, the restaurant is closed for private guests. Visitors from far away,” Marissa said.

“Fritz mentioned.”

“We should let you two finish,” Marissa said. “Out, all of you.” She pointed at the three in the back of the kitchen who snapped up and, without a word of complaint, moved to the dining room.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for dinner?” Marissa said to me.

I threw her a smile of my own. “Best noodles in town.”

Marissa, through practiced skill that I could only admire, beamed a grin that could stop the hearts of even the orneriest customer. A delighted look that was a mix between sincere approval and professional kindness flowed from her face as she causally left the kitchen.

“Why all the secrecy?” I overheard one server say on the way out.

“Secrecy?” I asked, my interest piqued.

“Yeah, no one tells us anything. How can we prepare?” another server said.

“Prepare for what?”

The server turned to me and looked me in the eye. “Why are we closed? Who is coming to dinner? Someone famous? Do you know?”

I shrugged then had to quickly grab the nearest solid object to steady my legs as the familiar tingling crept up my spine, warning me of a deluge of future memories about to be implanted in my cerebral cortex, triggered by the server’s question. I struggled to focus and keep my composure. I mostly failed. Then the world exploded around me.

My vision wavered and shifted. One moment I stood by the server, and the next I was in the restaurant proper. In front of me, a single table had been set for six guests. Marissa, standing at the maître d’ stand, apologized to a caller, saying they were closed for a special seating. Smells of cinnamon and spices, of roasted meat and grilled vegetables, filled my senses. More servers carried dishes from the kitchen and placed them in an ornate pattern next to each of the plates. A large domed tray sat in the center.

The door to the restaurant opened with force. Soon after, a six-foot-tall metal box rolled inside and came to a stop in the middle of the room. I’d seen these around the city, mostly at the Galactic Embassy. Special environmental containment systems used to carry sentient species that didn’t do well in our atmosphere. Marissa walked behind the container and closed and locked both doors, effectively shutting down the place for the night. She moved to the front of the strange alien-on-wheels biosphere and knocked twice. The entire wall facing her swung open, and a large ramp fell downward. My breath caught in my chest at the sight of the strangest aliens I’d ever seen walking out of a black mist and into my favorite lunch spot.

I know my reaction is odd in a world where strange beings from across the galaxy that look nothing like humans are as common as grumpy cab drivers. But these guys were not your garden variety extraterrestrials. Six impossibly thin dark bodies, each five feet tall, walked out of the environment enclosure on inch-wide pointy legs. Long, thin arms, which I can only describe as burnt sticks, extended out from their equally thin torsos. Each of the creatures reached for a chair and sat.

Once the super thin beings from a matchstick factory were seated, a window to the kitchen opened and out popped a slime-free Orellian tentacle. Fritz grabbed the top of the silver dome in the center of the party and lifted the lid. A pig’s head was on the plate, tusks jutting out from its maw, grilled vegetables surrounding its jowls. I moved closer and realized, with a growing gut-wrenching amount of disgust, that this wasn’t a hog at all. This was once, before losing his still very fleshy skull, a member of a sentient species called the Puntini. Class five aliens with lots of pull in the Galactic Congress. Fritz’s arm darted back into his kitchen and returned with a familiar-looking glass container of purple and pink dust. He poured the contents over the Puntini’s eyes and dabbed a few specks onto the tusks. Fritz then waved his tentacle in the air with a flourish that would make the most pretentious of chefs proud.

The room swirled into a blur of colors and sounds. I shook the images from my mind and tried to regain my balance. After a moment, the face of a very confused-looking server stared back at me. He was asking me something, but my ears hadn’t decided they wanted to work just yet.

“Hector, come,” Marissa said from the dining room. The server shrugged but gave me a half-angry stare.

“Give now, please?” Fritz said.

Nausea and a host of questions flooded my mind. The image of the head of the Puntini made my stomach do cartwheels. One may think I’d just saw a crime, but one could also be very unfamiliar with the strange and non-human customs, traditions, and rituals in this galaxy. Thousands of sentient species call this part of the universe home, and most of them are nothing like humans. I once tracked down a lost group of ambassadors, the Kubber, only to find them being fed, kicking and screaming, to a race of evolved flesh-eating plants. Turned out, every Kubber wants to be eaten. Most of them survive the process all the way through the digestive system and out the other end. They consider the ordeal a religious experience.

“You’re not getting yourself into any trouble, are you?”

“No,” Fritz said. His color shifted between a dozen colors. “Give, please?”

“Sure. Just be careful, okay? This gets into any humans, and you and I are both cooked.”

I took out the small glass vial in my pocket, the very one from the vision, and placed it on the counter. I thought about keeping it, or alerting the authorities, or demanding Fritz to tell me who killed the Puntini. But, frankly, it’s not my job. What can I say, it’s a strange universe, and questionable morals are my thing. In some galactic societies, eating another race is a high honor. In others, it’s a felony. What am I, a lawyer? Bottom line, he will not try to poison the city’s human population or sabotage the sewers, and that’s good enough for me.

Fritz picked up the glass container, opened a drawer on the wall near the ceiling, and laid the spice gently inside. Good riddance to that. I accidentally spilled a single grain in my coffee yesterday, and the experience was less than fun.

Fritz’s color turned to a soft light blue and green.

His tentacle swashing slowed considerably. “Thank you,” he said. “Free scooter for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I’m sure he meant the noodles.

A used matchstick lying on one of Fritz’s tables reminded me of the burnt, impossibly thin creatures in my vision. They spooked me. And for a guy that runs a detective agency specializing in non-humans, that’s saying something. I made a mental note to check in with the Galactic Embassy when I visit Kah and try to do a search based on their bodies. Not that it’s odd for a unique sentient to show up on Earth. We get at least a dozen new beings of extraordinary origins coming every week to poke us humans with a stick to see how high we can jump in the air for a snack. But aliens that feast on the heads of other intelligent life forms and show up out of the blue? That’s worth a gander.

“You be careful, Fritz. Those guys you’re having for dinner aren’t your garden variety weird entities.”

“How know?” Fritz asked, his colors shifting rapidly from orange to violet.

“I’m a private detective. It’s what I do.” I’d never told him my secret. Best to leave that tidbit for when we’re both half a bottle of Irish whiskey gone and ready to start on the rum. And boy do I hate rum.

Fritz opened the rear door and waved his tentacles at me. I took the hint and found my way out. In the alley, I gave the chrome doorknob a lingering stare. Fritz was more than the chef at my favorite restaurant. We’d played hours of poker with several of the other regulars. One, a Gingee claimed to have a bifurcated intelligence and could play multiple hands at once. It was a friendly game, so I didn’t care. Should I go to the authorities with the image of the Puntini’s head burned into my cortex? No chance. Ever since my ability popped into my skull, my goal in life has been avoiding attention. Last thing I need is some alien race taking an interest my gift and putting my brain in a petri dish to see how it works. And it’s not like that’s never happened. In the hidden corners of the electronic roadways of what they once called the internet, rumors ran rife of people like me disappearing into the void of a laboratory halfway across the cosmos. Though I never heard of anyone with my unique talent, plenty of others that register on the E-scale, a measurement of mental supernatural abilities, get a free one-way trip to lab-rat land.

Which is why I became a detective. The best place to hide is in plain sight. How did I know where your lost necklace is, madam? Or what fire hydrant your pooch calls the John? No, I don’t have a superpower that makes me omniscient. I’m just a good old- fashioned gumshoe. It’s what we in the trade call sleuthing. I’m perfectly happy to fade into the backdrop of society and live my day-to-day life with no notice or attention. The only wrinkle in my long-term life plan was Kah, an alien ambassador and two-ton living replica of a velociraptor. Kah knew what I could do. Why I wasn’t being dissected on the Ranz home world was another part of the puzzle. And no, I can’t ask myself to find out—it only works when I’m asked a question by someone else as they stare into my pearly blues. Eyes, that is. Frustrating, right? Sure, I could ask Pops, but it’s difficult to catch him when he’s not three bottles in and incoherent.

My phone rang and shook me out of my thoughts. Alice, my secretary, one of the smartest humans on the planet, whose grandfather was the smartest human on the planet, was calling. Hopefully, a fresh case awaited me with a client holding a briefcase full of cash. Guy can dream.

“Hi Alice,” I said.

“Noodles?”

I frowned and realized I’d forgotten to ask for the

free dinner. My appetite had run away from me when I saw the Puntini as a main course. “No, sorry.”

“Lame.”

“That it?”

“Kah’s secretary called, looking for you. Said you

told him you had something for him.”

I nodded to myself. “Okay, sure. I’ll call him.” “K,” Alice said and promptly hung up. She was angry that I didn’t get dinner. Couldn’t blame her. Whatever your hang-ups may be with an alien octopus for your chef, that mollusk sure knew his noodles.