Page 68 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

Before I could process what to do first to correct the craziness happening in my kitchen, a machinery growl and a strangled yelp drew my attention to the far side of the kitchen, where Vantor was engaged in what appeared to be mortal combat with my ancient vacuum cleaner.

The larger-than-life security guard’s human disguise was slipping badly around his right arm, where a purplish-red tentacle had extended well beyond human proportions. The appendage was caught firmly in the vacuum’s roller brush, being sucked deeper with every frantic tug. Vantor’s face was a focused mask as he braced one foot against the vacuum’s body, pulling his captured limb with increasing desperation.

“Enemy combatant has established grip lock,” he growled, his voice carrying that underwater echo it got when he was stressed. I could easily hear him over the roaring Hoover, thanks to the translator that seemed to tap directly into my brain. “Tactical retreat impossible. Considering appendage severance as viable option.”

“Don’t you dare cut off your tentacle in my kitchen!” I shrieked, finally finding my voice. “And what the hell happened to my house?”

Three alien heads swiveled toward me in perfect unison, offering me a range of expressions. The vacuum roared louder, sucking another inch of Vantor’s tentacle into its maw.

“Tammy Tucker!” Kalith brightened, seemingly oblivious to the coffee maker carnage around him. He raised his voice, as if forgetting I could hear him clearly despite the vacuum’s din. “We have implemented structural improvements to your dwelling’s food preparation area. The previous configuration was operating at only fifteen percent efficiency. I am now repairing your brown liquid creator. We observed your dependence on this substance.”

“Your caffeine delivery system did require significant modification,” Cyro added, his voice normal, obviously remembering there was no need to yell. He lifted the unbroken egg still in his hand. “I am on the precipice of performing a most excellent egg from shell extraction.”

Vantor, still locked in his death struggle with the vacuum, managed a curt nod. “Home base security enhanced. New entry points fortified with—ARRGGH!” His explanation cut off as the vacuum made a particularly violent lurch, dragging his tentacle farther into the brush.

I stood rooted to the spot, my brain struggling to process the scene before me. My kitchen—my crappy, outdated, familiar kitchen—looked amazing. And in this gleaming new space, three powerful aliens from beyond the stars were being utterly defeated by the most basic human tasks: making coffee, cooking eggs, and vacuuming the floor.

“How did you even...” I waved a hand helplessly at the renovations surrounding me. “When did you...”

“After you entered sleep cycle,” Kalith crowed cheerfully, lifting what I recognized as the coffee pot’s water reservoir. “Your dwelling’s structural components were substandard. We utilized materials from our ship’s non-essential systems to implement upgrades. Much of our best technology can be compressed and then expanded, so our cargo is a wealth of spare parts.”

“The work was completed in approximately four Earth hours,” Cyro added. “We would have achieved greater efficiency, but Vantor insisted on maintaining noise suppression protocols to avoid disrupting your sleep patterns.”

Vantor, still struggling with the vacuum, shot me a look that managed to be both apologetic and dignified despite his predicament. “The vacuum extraction device activated unexpectedly during final cleaning procedures,” he explained, as if this were a normal mission debriefing and not a scene of domestic chaos. “It appears to possess predatory instincts.”

The egg in Cyro’s hand chose that moment to slip from his grip, joining its fallen comrades on the countertop with a wet splat. He looked down at it with genuine surprise, as if the laws of physics had suddenly betrayed him.

“That was my final experimental subject,” he murmured, before looking back up at me with his disconcertingly beautiful, silver laced, lilac eyes. “I am afraid we will be unable to prepare you a traditional morning sustenance. I will require new test subjects before I can reattempt.”

I pressed my palms against my eyes, wondering if I could somehow reset the day by not seeing it for a few moments. When I lowered my hands, everything was still there—the gorgeous new kitchen, the destroyed coffee maker, the egg catastrophe, and Vantor, who had now resorted to hissing threats at the vacuum in what I assumed was his native language. Or…was he trying to mimic the Hoover’s mechanical howling?

Part of me wanted to scream. Another part wanted to laugh until my sides hurt. But mostly, I wanted coffee, which was probably not happening on this beautiful disaster of a morning.

“God,” I finally managed. “You guys are worse than a litter of puppies with power tools.”

For a solid minute, I stood there, my brain cycling through which disaster to tackle first—the disemboweled coffee maker, the egg apocalypse, or the tentacle-eating vacuum cleaner. This was like some twisted alien version of those “what would you save first in a fire?” scenarios, except all the potential disasters were happening simultaneously, and all were caused by beings from another planet who were supposedly more advanced than humans.

Before I could decide, Cyro provided fresh motivation when he snagged half an eggshell with one finger, bringing the cracked piece of white toward his mouth. “I can study other aspects of these calcium carbonate crystalline remains. Taste, texture, rate of burn.”

“Wait—” I started, but it was too late.

Cyro popped the eggshell in his mouth, bits of attached egg white and yolk seeping from the corner of his mouth to run down his chin. His human disguise rippled slightly around the edges with surprise.

“Fascinating,” he finally said, wiping his mouth with a tentacle now protruding from his back. “It is both crunchy, slimy, and inducing a strange sensation in my belly. I feel like I may expel the fragments involuntarily.”

“We don’t typically eat the eggshells,” I said, walking over to him. “And that feeling is probably nausea. If you vomit, I’m not cleaning it up.”

“Physical discomfort is acceptable during the pursuit of knowledge,” he countered, then he was rambling to himself. “I can taste albumin and nine essential amino acids. The lipid profile is particularly⁠—”

A sudden mechanical whirring sound cut off Cyro’s study of eggshells. I whipped around just in time to see Kalith take his hand from the cord of my reassembled coffee maker after plugging it into an outlet. The machine gave a high-pitched whine that no coffee maker should ever make, vibrating violently on the counter before shooting a geyser of dark grounds straight up into the air. The coffee grounds hung suspended for what seemed like an impossible moment before gravity reclaimed them, sending them showering down across the kitchen like caffeinated shrapnel.

“Minor recalibration required!” Kalith shouted over the coffee maker’s death scream, his left arm twitching frantically, splitting into tentacles, as he tried to disconnect the power. More tentacles emerged, frantically attempting to contain the grounds explosion while his right human hand fumbled with wires. “The pressure regulator appears to be⁠—”

Whatever the pressure regulator appeared to be was drowned out by an agonized yowl from Vantor as the vacuum cleaner gave a triumphant roar and sucked another three inches of his tentacle into its spinning brush. A few more inches and more than half of his appendage would be wound around the internal vacuum brush. The powerful security specialist, who currently looked like a seven-foot-tall superhero, was now awkwardly sprawled across the tile floor, his dignity completely abandoned as he engaged in a desperate tug-of-war with my ancient Hoover.

“Enemy combatant has the upper tentacle! My defensive capabilities are deficient!” he shouted, his usually controlled voice rising in pitch. His human disguise was failing spectacularly now, patches of deep blue-green skin showing through as he strained against the vacuum’s pull. “Request immediate tactical assistance!”

Coffee grounds were still raining down, Cyro was delivering a dissertation on proteins while chomping on eggshells, and Vantor was about to lose a limb to household cleaning equipment. Something inside me snapped—not with anger, but with the absurd hilarity of it all.