Too Small For Tall

by Rosenberg, Aaron

  I can’t see Tall, of course, but I’m sure he’s doing the whole “eyes clearing” thing right about now. Sure enough, a second later he says, “Ned? What’re you doing here?” Then he looks around. “What’m I doing out here? And where is everyone? Last I remember I was in—hold on, are those PMDU Mark IVs?” He’s looking down at the guns at his feet.

  “Uh, yeah, well, the thing is . . .” Ned rubs the back of his neck. Poor guy! I’m not sure how the hell he’s gonna explain all this.

  So maybe it’s for the best that he gets shouldered aside as at least six MiBs charge past him and tackle Tall to the ground.

  Or maybe not.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Looking for an open bar

  “How did I get myself into this mess?”

  That’s what Tall mumbles into his hands, which are cupping his head, which is down near his knees as he leans over. He’s sitting on a bed that looks remarkably familiar, or maybe it isn’t all that impressive since I just saw one exactly like it less than two hours ago. We’re in one of the holding cells down in B11, or maybe we’re on B10 or B12 or Riboflavin or something, I wasn’t paying all that much attention when they brought him in. I was too busy talking to Ned, the two of us trying to figure out how to keep Tall out of trouble.

  As you can tell, that didn’t go so well.

  When we finally gave up and backed off—after the MiB who seemed to be in charge had threatened to arrest Ned as well, and then to deport him permanently—and I switched back to Channel Tall, he was already in one of the holding cells. They’d taken off the restraints, at least, leaving him free to pace or stomp about or slam his fist against the door. Tall didn’t go for any of that, though. He just sat there, without a sound.

  It was driving me nuts.

  “Well,” Tall tells himself after another minute, wiping at his face with both hands like he can scrub away all memory of what happened, “that’s probably the end of that career. Time to look for something else, I guess.” He glances around. Same spartan design as we saw in Victor Din, Shadowmaster,’s room before all this went south in a big way.

  “Oh, knock it off,” I mutter, and then gulp as he glances all around.

  “Who said that?”

  Hm, come clean or let him think he’s crazy?

  It’s a tough call.

  Not really, though, which is why I answer him a second later. “Yeah, it’s me. DuckBob. Hey.”

  “DuckBob?” He’s scanning the room again, and I’m tempted to point out that there’s no way I could be hiding in there. Hell, my head’s practically too big to fit in that room all on its own, never mind the rest of me! But of course he’s gotta be thorough. “Where are you?” he asks while he’s still looking around.

  “Same answer as always,” I tell him. “Full-on matrix action here, twenty-four seven.”

  “Then how am I hearing you?” Yeah, not much gets by him.

  “It’s—” I start to roll out the storyline I created as my cover when he asked the last time, but I stop. Why should I lie about it again? Especially to Tall? Real Tall, not cookie-zombie Tall. The guy who saved my bacon—duck bacon, in this case—more than once. Damn. “I planted a camera and a mic on you the last time you visited,” I say instead. Then I pause to let him absorb that, wondering if I should’ve worded that more carefully, worked up to it maybe. This whole “honesty” thing? Still kinda a work in progress.

  “You bugged me?” That’s not a good start. “How did l let you get away with that?”

  That is the million-dollar question, and again I debate making something up versus explaining the even weirder real-life events. But he’s gotta learn the truth sometime—better it comes from me than from one those fortune cookies or ouja boards. “You weren’t exactly yourself at the time,” I explain slowly. Man, I really don’t want to have to do this! “You turned into a zombie or something.”

  “A zombie? Uh-huh.” Yeah, I wouldn’t believe it either. But still . . .

  “It’s true, man. The past few months you’ve been turning into a zombie—not the shambling-about-eating-live-people version but definitely more laid back, to the point that you basically did anything people told you.” I scratch at my bill. “You saw the way midtown looked? That was all you, dude. And all because this one furry little alien ordered you to ‘cut loose’ and ‘go on a rampage.’”

  Tall shakes his head. “Never happened. If I was a zombie, I think I’d know.”

  “Yeah? How?” I decide to try a different tack. “Listen, what’s the last thing you remember? Before finding yourself facing the Flatiron with a pair of smoking guns at your feet and Ned practically in your face?”

  “Hm.” I can almost feel his brow furrowing—any deeper and he’d crease the lens. “I was at work. I took a break, got some coffee . . .” He trails off, and I fill in the rest for him.

  “—and you had a few ChocoMints. I know. That was over an hour ago, dude. You zombied out, same as you’ve done every time you’ve had them, except this time I wasn’t there to tell you to snap out of it. So I had to send Ned to do it instead.”

  “So you’re saying the cookies did something to me?” he asks. “Took away my ability to reason, turned me into a mindless drone?”

  “Uh, not exactly. You still think, I think. You answer questions, speak in complete sentences, fill out paperwork—if anything, I think your typing speed actually went up, which only goes to show there’s some things you shouldn’t overthink in life, and that being conscious at work isn’t always the best solution. It’s just that, any time anybody told you directly to do something, you did it. No argument, no questioning, no nothing. Oh, and you were . . . nice. To everybody.”

  “Nice? Me?” Hey, at least he knows himself.

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “Even to Agent Jones.”

  I’m pretty sure his eyes’ve gotta be bugging out by now. “I was nice to Agent Jones?”

  “Yeah. You two . . . chatted.” Just thinking about the awkward cloaking that brief conversation gives me the shudders. Ugh. Like trying to watch one of those comedies where they equate incredibly uncomfortable with funny, so you gotta watch some schlub you can’t help but feel sorry for getting stuck in some awful situation and sit there cringing as he fumbles his way around all flushed and flustered and embarrassed. Oh yeah, that’s high comedy for you.

  Now, at least, Tall rises to his feet. And starts pacing like a lion in a cage, one who scents fresh meat just beyond the bars. This is more like it! “Somebody drugged me,” he says as he walks. “That’s what you’re saying?”

  “Exactly. Through the cookies.”

  “Why hasn’t it affected anyone else?”

  I don’t know. “I don’t know.” See, no filter—I think it, I say it. At least people know what they’re getting from me. None of those “yeah, but what does he really mean?” looks around here. But something occurs to me. “Are you sure it hasn’t? Who else’s eaten those cookies at work?”

  “Everybody.” That was the answer I was afraid of. “Well, almost everybody. Agent Jones is borderline diabetic—she can’t touch processed sugar. And I don’t think Agent Smith has, either. He’s gluten-free anyway, but he made a big stink when I first passed around the order forms—he said something when they showed up in the break room about ‘the laxity of allowing such frivolous comestibles into the workplace,’ and how the endorphins released by chocolate could have a deleterious effect on judgment and efficiency.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t mean much,” I tell him. “Half the time, the guy saying alcohol’s the devil is the same one doing shots at two in the afternoon and adding a slug of Jaegermeister to his coffee every time he brews a cup. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts Smith’s got a box or two stashed in his desk, maybe not ChocoMints but Lemon Stripes for sure. That’s probably how he justifies it to himself, too—‘these aren’t chocolate so it’s not the same!’ Trust me, I know the type.” Hey, what can I say? I’m an expert at explaining away one’s own bad behavior. I used
to rationalize jumping the turnstiles as ‘not giving in to authority’ and stealing waiters’ tips off tables as ‘freeing them from the dilemma of reporting their under-the-table pay.’ Heck, when I was in the frat we used to ‘bump into’ beer trucks until kegs fell out the back, then claim those as ground-scores. I don’t do that kind of thing anymore, of course—for one thing, I’m way too easy to pick out of a lineup—but it’s easy enough to remember how to think along those lines.

  “Okay, so let’s assume the whole office is a goner,” I say, returning to our current problem. “Think back. Did you tell anybody to do something and have them argue with you? Anybody at all? Even something as simple as changing the coffee filter or washing their hands after they peed or putting down another buck to help cover the bill?”

  Another pause. “No,” he admits finally. “Nobody. We haven’t had any arguments in weeks—maybe months. And everybody I tell to do something, they do it.” Something kind of like a laugh, only raspier, escapes his lips. “Of course, most people jump when I talk, anyway.”

  “Sure, but they usually grumble about it afterward, right?” I don’t really need his nod to know the answer to that. “And nobody’s complained in a while, I’m guessing. They still do what you say, but now they do it willingly. Right?” Another nod. I’m getting whiplash out of sympathy. “Yeah. All cookie-zombies. Great.”

  Tall stops near the door. “We need to do something about this. We need to find out who’s behind this, how they’re doing it, what they want, and put a stop to it. Now.”

  “Uh huh. And how do you expect to do that, bright guy? Hm? You’re in jail, in case you hadn’t noticed. Your jail, MiB jail. And I’m guessing you guys were pretty thorough at making it so people couldn’t just come and go as they pleased.”

  He starts to answer, but gets interrupted by another noise. The click of a doorknob. His doorknob.

  Tall steps back as the door swings open. And there, not quite filling it and trying to look menacing anyway, is Agent Smith. He’s got two other MiBs behind him, both the bulky type, but they wait there as he enters.

  “Agent Thomas,” he starts. Does this guy ever just say “hi?” Probably not.

  “Agent Smith.” Tall stands aside and lets him walk in, close the door, and then take the single chair. They don’t exactly provide space for parties in here, do they?

  Smith steeples his fingers, which I know is supposed to make him look all stern and serious and thoughtful but really just makes me expect him to flip his hands over and show us “all the people.” Then again, he probably never went to summer camp as a kid. I did, though, pretty much every summer—it was a good excuse to get out of the house, and sharing a cabin with nine other boys my age is nothing compared to dealing with all my siblings. And hey, I can still tie a slipknot! “I trust you have an explanation for your recent behavior?” Smith asks Tall.

  “Yes, sir.” Tall doesn’t bother to sit. “I was not in full control of myself, sir. I was operating under an impairment that clouded my judgment and made me susceptible to commands from others.” Personally, I think “I was a cookie-zombie” is a lot shorter but really covers the same ground.

  “I see.” Smith taps his index fingers against his lips. Maybe he’s checking to see if they’re real. I’d love to know the answer to that, because they look more like wax from here. “And do you have any proof of this interference?”

  “Not yet,” Tall tells him. “But I intend to.”

  “Of course.” Ever seen a piranha smile, right before it does the Ginsu-death-shred on your right leg? That’s the look that appears on Smith’s face. If I were Tall, I’d back away slowly. “Unfortunately, without such proof, there is no way I can exonerate you for your actions.”

  “I understand.” I’m glad one of us does!

  Smith stands and leans on the chair back. “For now, I am suspending you from active duty. You will be held here while we conduct a full investigation into what happened and why, at which point we will decide whether to release you, rehabilitate you, or punish you, and to what degree.” He steps over to the door and grasps the knob in one hand. “Did you have any final questions, anything you wished to add?”

  “Yes.” Tall only takes one stride but it’s enough to put him right next to Smith, and it’s only because I’m in his ear that I hear what he whispers next:

  “Sleep now.”

  If I were Tall, I’d let Smith crumple to the floor like a cheap suit. He catches his boss instead, carrying him over to the bed and laying him down across it almost gently. A helluva lot nicer than I’d be right now.

  Then Tall opens the door. The two MiBs there both startle upon seeing him, and they’re already reaching for their guns when Tall says, “Sleep now” to both of them as well, and they topple over, already unconscious. He doesn’t make any effort to catch them. I guess he likes Smith more.

  “That was awesome!” I tell him as he rifles through their pockets. He comes up with their pistols, their IDs, a set of car keys, two sets of house keys, a pair of cell phones, a half-empty container of TicTacs, a condom (Ew!), some cash, some change, and a ballpoint pen. He takes all of it. Then he drags both of them into the cell and shuts the door on them. Neither of them wake up during this process. “How’d you know that would work?” I ask while he starts down the hall, toward the door out.

  “You said we all did anything anyone told us to,” he answers sharply. This is the Tall I know, terse and surly and in charge. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him until now. “I figured I could tell them to let me go but they’d just come after me again. This was easier.”

  “They’ll still come after you,” I point out as he reaches the door, swipes one of the agents’ IDs through it, and pulls it open. “Once they wake up.”

  “Absolutely, but that’ll take time.” He crosses the lobby and hits the elevator button up. “By that time, I’ll be long gone.”

  “Got it. Where’re you going?” It’s amazing that he can smirk and I can hear it through the mic. “Ah. Right. Well, I’ll try to tidy up before you get here.”

  “Good. And call Ned and Mary,” he instructs as he gets into the elevator. “It’s time we took the fight to them.”

  Take the fight to Ned and Mary? I think as Tall heads up toward the roof and the MiB-mobiles. Why would I want to fight either of them? I’m so confused.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I love you, you make me sick

  I hate cleaning. I’ll just state that right here and now. Cleaning and I? We’re not friends. Not even friendly acquaintances, not even nodding ones—if we had the same commute every day for years, taking the same busses and subways at the same time, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder half the time, we’d still ignore each other the whole way.

  Not that I like filth, mind you. I’m not a pig or anything—ducks are surprisingly clean, really, and I wasn’t much of a wallower even before the change. I prefer to have things clean and tidy and all that.

  I just hate having to be the one to do it.

  Before I left Earth, I shared an apartment with two other guys. In New York, you pretty much have to have roommates unless you’re rich or you had an old relative leave you their rent-controlled loft in the village or you’re willing to live in a shoebox. Since I wasn’t any of those, I had roommates. We had a decent enough place, a three-bedroom apartment in an old building out in Sunnyside, just a few blocks off Queens Boulevard and the 7 train.

  My one roommate, Nathan, he was a total slob. Guy would take food into his room, eat half of it, fall asleep or get stoned or just get distracted, and leave the rest sitting somewhere near his bed or his desk or on his dresser or whatever. For weeks. The good news was, we didn’t have bugs in the rest of the apartment because they all made a beeline for his room. The bad news was, you didn’t want to walk barefoot in there. The floor moved.

  My other roommate, Greg, was practically the opposite. Not that he was completely anal—I know because when I moved the cereal boxes around so they we
ren’t in order of ascending height, he didn’t shuffle them back right away, and if I turned my toothbrush so it wasn’t facing the same way as the others, it might stay that way for a couple of days. But Greg did like the place neat and clean, and Nate and I quickly learned that, if we left a mess for long enough, Greg would clean it. Nate didn’t really care, himself—he left messes not because he wanted Greg to clean them but because he just couldn’t bother with them himself. If nobody had touched them and the ants and roaches had eventually formed a coalition and informed him that they had claimed his room as their own, he probably would’ve just shrugged and told them they were responsible for the rent.

  Me, however, I did take advantage of Greg’s neatnik tendencies. Mercilessly. It was horrible of me, and I admit it, but I would let dishes pile up in the sink just to see how long he could stand to leave them that way. The answer? Four days. Then he’d break down and wash them, dry them, put them away, the whole bit. It was like having a live-in maid.

  Admittedly, I tried to make up for it. I never let Greg pay for a single beer the whole time we lived together, and I always covered him when we ordered food, too. I figured that was only fair.

  Besides, even though we had three bedrooms our place wasn’t exactly huge. We each had our own rooms, yeah, but they were New York-sized, which means there was enough space for beds and dressers and small desks and the occupant to shimmy through them. The kitchen could fit the three of us at one time, barely. The living room was the largest room in the place, and when we had parties and more than eight people showed up we had to spill over into the hall. Or, more likely, up on the roof. Provided it wasn’t raining, and sometimes even when it was.

  So when I took over as Guardian of the Matrix, and it came with this huge, sparkly crystal-skull hangout that looks like a cross between Skeletor’s fortress and someplace My Little Ponies might live, I was thrilled to have so much space all to myself. That was my first reaction, “Oh wow, look at all this room!” My second reaction was, “Crap, who’s gonna keep this place clean?” I considered calling Greg and seeing if he wanted to relocate, but I figured he wouldn’t appreciate the commute.