“Triple-Octagonal-Ultramarine-Uranium,” he corrects automatically, which more than anything tells he’s back to normal. “You may be right,” he admits, which worries me all over again. “I’ll look into the cookies when I get back. And I won’t eat any more of them, either.” He rubs his jaw. “In the meantime, what are we going to do about her?”
“Oh, no!” I hold up my hands and back away. “That’s your problem—you brought her here. You figure out how to get her back home again.”
Tall sighs but doesn’t argue. Instead he squares his shoulders, tenses his jaw, and walks over to her.
“I’m sorry, Agent Jones,” he tells her—yeah, so I’m eavesdropping shamelessly, so what? It’s my giant glittery skull, after all!—“but you’re not cleared for any of this. I never should have brought you here.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” she agrees immediately, and it almost looks like she’s pleased about it. Her voice matches her appearance, by the way. It’s deep and husky, and not in a sexy-Lauren Bacall way—more like an overtired trucker way. “This is far above my clearance rating, as I’m sure you know. So why did you bring me here?”
To his credit, Tall doesn’t come up with some crazy excuse about aliens controlling his brain or the Jell-O at lunch leaving him a coded message or the fate of a thousand chorally trained tuna depending upon it. He just shakes his head. “I don’t know. I believe my mind may have been clouded, as was my judgment, but I take full responsibility for my actions. Now let’s get you back.”
She just nods and turns to go, without even a backward glance or a cheery “thanks for letting me show up unannounced and wake you from a sound sleep, let’s get a beer sometime!” or even a “harrumph, I hear you saved the entire galaxy, so thanks for that, I suppose.” Nothing.
“Nice to meet you,” I call out to her as they leave. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again some day—in Hell. Or at the local dog run.” What, I can’t be a little rude back? “Give as good as you get,” my Uncle Jack always said. Though that didn’t work out so well for him the time somebody rear-ended his truck and he got out, grabbed the guy, dragged him out of his car, and dropkicked him into a nearby Dumpster. At least the judge thought it was funny, and he and Jack were drinking buddies anyway, so he went for the minimum sentence.
After they leave I think about going back to sleep, but of course I’m wide awake now. So I switch on that new game again and play it for a while. Right now it involves running around and making people’s heads explode, which I do a lot in real life but not usually in the literal sense. There’s supposed to be rules for who you want to explode and who you don’t, I think, but I don’t bother with those, I just explode everybody I meet. Again, kinda like real life. Hey, at least this way nobody can accuse me of favoritism. I do wonder, though, if everybody’s heads explode, who’s going to clean up the mess? Because I can tell you one thing, it ain’t gonna be me.
Chapter Eight
Utili-kilts all around!
“It is a conundrum,” Mary agreed a few days later. We were lounging on the couch, relaxing and recovering after a rousing game of Strip Mah Jong. What, you think poker’s the only game you can play that way? Hell, no! Almost any game that lets you go head-to-head (heh!) and has a clear winner, you can do a strip version. I’ve played plenty of ’em, too. Geez, one time we even tried Strip Risk.
And let me tell you: That? Does not work. At all.
First off, it’s just too damn slow. It’s hours before a game ends, so unless you start everybody out in only a wifebeater and a utility kilt—a look that works on pretty much anyone, by the way—there’s no way you’re gonna get anywhere before people fall asleep from sheer boredom, usually either in the chips bowl or across the game board—or, in my case, both. Second, there’s just something about Risk that’s a little too combative. It must be because you’re playing whole armies, but people get too entrenched in their little worldviews and their nationalistic roles and, well, they’re not exactly interested in hooking up with what they consider foreign powers. Like I said, the one time we tried it I fell asleep partway through, but I do remember getting woken up by hearing one of the girls playing shouting about how there was no way she was gonna bow down to some socialist imperialist scum—which doesn’t even make sense, when you think about it—and a guy yelling back about how she was nothing but a child of criminals anyway, and he wouldn’t want to see her with her shirt off even if he could! Yeah, it got pretty ugly, though it did provide an excellent primer for my World Politics class.
But Strip Mah Jong? Brilliant stuff. It’s nice and fast-paced, you can see the other player’s tiles as they get laid out so you’re constantly calculating your chance of winning, and there’s lots of reaching across the board, which after the first game or two can get all kinds of distracting—in a good way.
It’s exactly what a strip game should be—quick, fun, cut-throat but still friendly, with lots of jiggling. Because ultimately in a game like that, no matter who wins, everybody wins.
And yeah, I won. See above.
Anyway, we were catching our breath and debating a rematch—the biggest drawback being we’d have to get dressed all over again—and so while we were chilling I filled Mary in on the latest with Tall. Including both his new glassy-eyed behavior and his impromptu turn as a tour guide to the unpleasant Agent Jones. Which probably wasn’t the best plan on my part, because now there’s a furrow above those gorgeous blue eyes and a frown plastered across those lovely red lips. Yeah, my lady friend’s a serious looker. Trust me, I know how lucky I am.
“Your hypothesis may be correct,” she tells me, “regarding the cookies as at least a catalyst for Tall’s unusual behavior, if not the outright cause.” Yeah, she’s a brain, too. I love the way she talks, like she’s the world’s hottest science teacher. Sign me up for extra credit! I am a little alarmed, though, at what she’s saying. If both she and Tall think I could be right about the cookies, something’s seriously wrong. “Yet you have had no adverse reaction to them?”
I shrug. “I got a ChocoMint stuck in my gullet at one point and spent the morning coughing up cookie bits until it finally dissolved enough for me to swallow the rest of the way, but other than that, no. Did you?”
She shakes her head, which sends those thick waves of glossy black hair flying. Did I mention how hot she is? I know, I just like to point it out whenever I can. “I did not observe any change in my mental acuity or my ability to withstand suggestion,” she agrees, “though admittedly there were only a few cookies left for me by that point in time.” She tosses me an arch look along with that comment, and I hang my head a bit. Yeah, I’d meant to save her half of that box from Tall, but what can I say? I got peckish while waiting. Also, I just can’t resist the darned things. Hell, I was pleased that I left her any at all!
“But I’ve got tons more now,” I point out, gesturing toward the stack of them over by the TV. “Pick a box and it’s all yours—I’ll even write your name on it so nobody else’ll touch it. Including me,” I add as she elbows me in the side. “Promise.”
She considers for a second. “It would be advisable to sample them again,” she says finally, “to confirm my earlier lack of reaction and to test for any unusual flavoring or contents.” So saying, she hops up from the sofa—which sighs a little, ’cause it likes her almost as much as I do—and sashays across the room to select a box from the pile.
And no, she doesn’t bother putting her clothes back on first.
Did I mention— yeah, yeah, fine.
I have no problem, however, just laying here and waiting for her to take her own sweet time returning.
No problem at all.
When she does plonk herself down next to me again—only, when she does it it’s a lot more graceful, and a lot sexier, than it sounds—she opens the box, removes a sleeve of cookies, tears the end of the wrapping enough to extract them, and then selects one between thumb and forefinger. She holds the ChocoMint up like it was a lab spe
cimen, and we both stare at it.
It looks exactly like a ChocoMint. I know, because I dream about them. A lot. It’s a thin disk, sort of scalloped around the edges, a little rounded across the top but perfectly flat and with the CampGirl logo pressed in on the bottom, and the whole thing is coated in dark chocolate.
I’m practically drooling just looking at it.
And then there’s the smell—you get the chocolate first, like a sledgehammer, then the mint sort of sneaks up on you and puts you in a chokehold while you’re laying there, and then the sugary, bready scent of fresh cookie dough leans in and bops you right on the nose.
Wow, I hadn’t realized, but CampGirl cookies are kinda violent!
“I do not see anything amiss,” Mary says finally, and I nod. Looks like a regular ol’ ChocoMint to me!
Then she parts those luscious lips and takes a dainty bite.
Is it bad that I could probably sit and watch her chew for hours?
She swallows—hey, now!—and studies the rest of the wafer. “I do not feel unusual,” she tells me. “How long after ingestion did Tall show signs of altered behavior?”
“Pretty much the instant he chomped down,” I answer, thinking back. “He shoved several in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and—instant zombie. Nice-guy zombie. A zombie hippy.”
Mary doesn’t look like a zombie at all—I can tell her eyes are just as alert as ever. Not much gets past those peepers, which can be a damn shame when you’re trying to surprise her with flowers and she sees you paying the delivery guy at the door and recognizes the florists’ logo on the package.
“There is a flavor here,” she remarks, “that I do not remember encountering in these cookies before. I cannot place it, and it is subtle, but it is there.”
“Really?” I reach for a cookie. “May I?” She nods, and I pop it into my mouth. Hm. “Yeah, you’re right,” I say, and only think to raise a hand to my face after I’ve sprayed her with cookie crumbs. “Damn, sorry. Here, let me get those off you.” I start trying to brush them off her, which may have to be round two of Strip Mah Jong from now on, and I pretty much forget what I was saying or doing or even thinking before then.
“What do you notice?” Mary prompts after a few seconds.
“Well, this dimple here is all kinds of hot,” I answer, and she harrumphs and swats me on the arm. “Oh, right.” I finish chewing. “Yeah, under the mint and the chocolate and general cookie-ness there’s something else. It’s kinda bitter, actually, maybe a little metallic? Like chewing tin foil, but so faint I didn’t notice it before you said.” Hey, I’ve got good taste buds, okay? It probably comes from having such a large mouth, plus I think the Grays sort of plugged in brand-new ones when they modified me, like when your mechanic changes the oil and pops in some new spark plugs, too.
“Metallic,” she muses, absently finishing the rest of her cookie. And there’s that chewing again. Damn. “Yes, you are correct. Some sort of vitamin complex, perhaps? I will need to test them in order to determine the exact ingredient. But there is certainly something here, which bolsters your theory further.”
Ooh, now I’m getting bolstered. That sounds kinda rude—and kinky. But I get the gist.
“You think Tall’s getting anywhere on his end?” I ask her, taking the box and setting it down on the floor out of our way so we can snuggle close again. “He said he was gonna look into it, too.”
Mary’s silent for a minute. “Perhaps,” she decides after the pause. “But I would not count on it, not when he has already proven himself highly susceptible to whatever is occurring to him.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” I sigh. “Unfortunately, it’s not like I can go back to Earth and help him out. I’m pretty much stuck here. And you’re too busy, what with all these assignments they’ve got you on. And who the hell knows where Ned is—he hasn’t been by in over a month.” Okay, maybe I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. I’ve got it pretty good, and I know it, but sometimes it strikes home that I’m stuck here—and I mean really stuck here, since without me around as its final element the whole Matrix grinds to a halt and its protective mojo drops and outsiders can pop in and invade us. Again. Normally I don’t mind being housebound—especially since my house is the size of a football stadium, complete with its own dugouts and concession stands—but this is one of those times I really wish I could just hail a cab and get on out of here, at least for a little while.
“You are already helping him,” Mary assures me, “and I will do what I can as well.” She gives me that coy little smile of hers, the one she knows full well knocks me for a loop. “That is a matter for later, however. In the meantime, perhaps you would be up for another game?”
Did I mention— yeah, yeah.
Chapter Nine
Does this make me look fat?
“What is it?” Tall asks, squinting at the little box I’ve just handed him. And by “little,” I mean about the size of my thumbnail. Which, admittedly, isn’t as small as it could be, but hey, sometimes you just need a screwdriver that very second. Or a spackle knife. Or a spatula.
“Well, open it.” I’m almost vibrating with excitement, though that could also be the Eargan Lightning Jelly I ordered online. Tastes like a cross between spearmint, pennies, mini-wheat cereal, and ginger marmalade, and wires you better than any ten shots of espresso ever could. Plus, you can produce static shocks from hell!
I am excited, though. I got the idea a few days after talking to Mary about everything, and spent the time since then scouring the Galactic Net for something that would fit the bill. That’s how I happened across the Lightning Jelly, which I figured was worth trying, too. I’d almost given up on finding these when a set popped up on AuctionWorld. And I managed to snag them!
Tall opens the box and just sits there staring at what’s inside. Finally I reach over and take the box from him, then remove half its contents to show him. “See, this is like the world’s tiniest webcam,” I tell him. And it is, too. It’s barely the size of a dime, just as thin, and vaguely flesh-colored. “It’s got a nonadhesive clingy back, like those plastic clingform pictures you can stick on glass, and it’s breathable and waterproof so you put it somewhere like your forehead and just forget about it. The color’ll shift once it’s in place, matching perfectly to whatever’s below it so it’ll be completely invisible, and pretty much undetectable by any other method, too. But I’ve got the matching dongle installed and its specific frequency already logged in”—I pat my computer and almost get frostbite for my troubles—“so I can see everything it sees. And according to its specs and the little test I did the other day, this baby’ll see just about everything.” I admit, I’m proud of myself. “It’s got a range measured in astronomical units and shown in scientific notation,” I add, “and it’s supposed to be able to cover from one end of reality to the other, so I figure we’ll be fine.”
“I don’t get it. You want me to take pictures for you?” Wow, sometimes the big guy is seriously dense, and not just in muscle mass.
“No, doofus! Well, yes, but no. Okay, yes, but that’s not the point.” I’m not going to let him dampen my enthusiasm. “Look, I can’t go anywhere, right?” I gesture at my “crown,” the wired-up doohickey that connects me to the Matrix, and then toward the door in the general direction of the Matrix itself. Thank God for Ned’s almost-infinitely-extensible cable! Otherwise I’d have to spend all day every day walking around the Matrix chamber with my head literally stuck in the gap. And let me tell you, with a head the size of mine, we’re talking serious neck twinges!
“Right.” Oh, good, he gets that much!
“But this way I can!” I’m bouncing again, so much so that the couch tries to turn itself into a trampoline. Not helpful, pal. But I do file that option away for the next time Mary’s over. Rowr. “I can be right there with you, checking everything out, offering suggestions, pointing out things you missed—it’ll be just like old times!” Except that I’ll actually be halfway across the galaxy, mo
st likely sitting with my feet in the lounging pool and a cold drink in my hand, checking my email, chatting with Mary, and probably watching a movie or playing online at the same time. But I leave that part out—I don’t want him to feel like he’s not getting my undivided attention.
Tall’s still just staring at me, so I hold out my hand, the camera perched on my forefinger. “Take it, man.”
He does.
“All right, now just stick it in the center of your forehead.” He does, which surprises me, and it adheres at once. Then the coloration affect kicks in and it darkens and fades. If you really stare, and squint a lot, you can maybe just about tell that he’s got a slight protrusion there, but only just. If they made them to match feathers I’d consider wearing it myself, just so I could scan back over footage at the end of the day and make sure there wasn’t anything I missed, but apparently it has trouble mimicking texture. “Good, that should be that—for seeing what you see. Which just leaves hearing what you hear—and talking back and forth.” I lift the rest of the box’s contents out for him to admire. “State of the art wireless earbud and mike,” I explain. It’s even smaller than the camera, not much more than a centimeter long and also sort of but not quite flesh-colored. “It goes in your ear—it’s supposed to be ‘acoustically transparent,’ meaning sound passes right through it, so it shouldn’t mess with your hearing at all. Plus I can talk to you directly whenever I want. Y’know, offer suggestions, dating advice, whisper sweet nothings, stuff like that.”
That should have gotten a big old glare, a frown, a “not a chance!”—something! Instead Tall just sits there like a statue.
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