Too Small For Tall

by Rosenberg, Aaron

  And no, I didn’t think about calling Nate.

  The first week or two, I just didn’t bother cleaning at all. Hey, I’d just saved the universe, I figured I deserved a little break. Plus my whole life had just changed—new job, new living situation, new restrictions, new girlfriend. It takes time to adjust.

  But after a little while I started noticing the smell. Not me—I always bathe regularly, or at least walk through a mister or something. The rooms. The ones I was using—and a few I wasn’t.

  I think I mentioned that the last Guardian had, as near as we could tell, been zapped by the invaders, leaving nothing behind but a small pile of ash on the ground in the big Matrix chamber.

  What I probably haven’t said is that it looks like he didn’t live here alone. We have no idea who or what they were, whether they were his friends or his family or his marketing staff or what. All we know is, there were other piles in other rooms.

  And a few that weren’t completely ash.

  Those were the ones that were starting to stink.

  Finally Mary, Ned, and Tall all sat me down and read me the riot act. “You’re the Guardian,” they said, “and this is your place now. You need to keep it clean.” Then, because that’s the kind of people they are, they pitched in to help.

  It took us a week to clean, top to bottom, front to back, side to side, inside and out. There was all kinds of stuff scattered around, and a lot of it we had no idea what it was, food or clothing or refuse or some kind of interstellar stamp collection. Anything we couldn’t identify, we tossed. Clothes got tossed too, except a few pieces I kept—hey, who doesn’t need a tracksuit that looks like it’s made of dominoes, or a Hawaiian shirt picturing volcanoes that actually explode? Food all went away, too—I was all in favor of trying them first, until Ned pointed out that we had no idea how long any of it had been here, whether any of it was still good, and whether the invaders had poisoned any of it, just to be sure they took out my predecessor. It was that last one that finally decided me. I was willing to risk the expired thing; I do that all the time. I figure those dates on the packages are just guidelines, really.

  Anyway, when we’d finished the entire place was spic n’ span. I hadn’t exactly brought much with me—not even a change of clothes—and although I did manage to send for most of my stuff there wasn’t a lot of it. I’ve never been much of a packrat. I set up a closet, and the pantry, and the kitchen, and the living room, and that was about that.

  I’ve added a few things since then, though. Discovering there’re over twenty different shopping networks, and all of them will deliver to the Galactic Core? Probably not the best thing, especially when you’ve got a few thousand races kicking in toward a monthly stipend for you—I’m basically loaded now. And it’s amazing how many things look like something you absolutely can’t live without at three in the morning. I bought clothes, weapons, gadgets, books, exotic foods, stuff that fit in two or more of those categories at once, all kinds of things. I figured, what the heck, I had plenty of room.

  Except that I never remembered to carry any of it to any of those other rooms. I just opened each package in the living room, and the stuff stayed there.

  Which led to the second intervention. Followed by the second bout of cleaning. A lot of the stuff I’d bought went away—did I really need a rotating pan-flute that created its own atmospheric light show but required three mouths and fourteen sets of lungs to play properly? Probably not. And how many synaptic conducer-arrays (“Fry an egg with the power of your mind!”) did anyone really need? The answer, it turned out, was two—one for every day and one for company.

  Now I try not to buy as much, and the things I do buy I try to remember to put in the rooms I’ve designated for different belongings. And I try to remember to pick my dirty clothes up off the floor and all that. It’s a good thing I don’t have a pet, though in a way I guess my couch kind of qualifies. Which is actually one reason I don’t have a regular pet, because I’m afraid the couch would eat it. I suppose that’s only fair, since I’ve had pets in the past that ate the furniture—it might just be the furniture’s turn now. But then I’d worry about it getting a taste for flesh and demanding more pets, and then it would turn into a Broadway musical and I’d have to find a singing dentist and it would just go from there.

  Anyway, the point is, when Tall arrived the next day—I hadn’t bothered to watch his progress except here and there to make sure the MiBs hadn’t dragged him back—the place wasn’t any more messy than usual. Or any more tidy, either. Which Tall definitely noticed, judging by the way he scowled and turned his nose up a bit. Shame he never made it home while I was watching, because I’ve long suspected he’s got a decontamination shower just inside the front door, and doesn’t let anyone bring shoes or weapons or body hair inside. Now I may never know.

  “I thought you were going to tidy up?” he says as he drops onto the couch, after first giving it a glare that makes it sulk and stay put for him. He’s definitely got the thing trained. Me, I let it have a little fun and surprise me.

  I look around. “What? It’s clean . . . ish.” I kick a Red’s delivery bag out of the way.

  “Whatever.” He frowns. “Where’re Mary and Ned? You did call them, right?”

  “Of course I called them! They’re in the other room. Come on.” And I lead the way through the main Matrix chamber to an alcove I’ve never really used before. Ned and Mary are waiting there, all set up with a table and a chair. And a couch for me to observe from. I have good friends.

  “What’s all this?” Tall asks, eying the arrangement and especially the helmet Ned’s holding. It looks like a stainless steel colander that somehow flowered after a bad acid trip.

  “This is the behavioral realignment accelerated design,” Ned says proudly. “Brad for short.” He proffers it. “Here, put it on.”

  “What?” Tall’s eyeing it like it just sprouted eyes and winked saucily at him—which, given all the wires and circuit boards and tubes and so forth jutting out of it, it just might. “We don’t have time for this. We need to figure out what’s going with the CampGirl cookies.”

  “Yes,” Mary agrees, calm and cool as ever. “But before that can happen, we must be sure you have been freed from their influence. Otherwise—” She’s had one hand behind her back, and now she brings it around—to reveal the box of ChocoMints she was hiding. Tall stiffens at the sight of them. Ever watch a man who’s sworn off drinking when he winds up in a bar or at a party where there’s booze, upon seeing that first bottle or glass go past? That look of worship and need mixed with self-loathing? That’s the exact look that flashes across Tall now. He actually reaches out, possibly without realizing he is, and I grab his wrist, which gets me a glare. Number Two.

  “Chill, dude,” I tell him. “You wanna take down whoever’s behind this? That means no more cookie-zombie for you.”

  After a second he nods and yanks his arm free, but he doesn’t flatten me or toss me across the room or anything like that, so I figure we’re cool. So do Mary and Ned, I guess, because Ned offers him the hat again.

  This time, Tall takes it.

  “You’ve heard of aversion therapy, right?” Ned asks as he gestures Tall toward the one chair and then starts fiddling with his diagnostic tools, which always looks to me like a guy air-drumming with high-tech chopsticks. “Where you get exposed to some kind of negative stimulus at the same time as something you like but shouldn’t have, like cigarettes or booze? The idea is to associate the two in your head, so whenever you think of cigarettes you see a dead baby or smell wet dog or whatever.” Tall nods. “Well, that’s exactly how Brad works, only he hits you with five to ten different negatives all at once. And he projects those sensations directly into your cerebellum, so they’re half-stuck right from the get-go. Normally this kind of therapy takes weeks to months.” He beams. “With Brad, it takes about ten minutes.”

  Tall nods. He has the helmet strapped on, its built-in visor covering his eyes and nose, pie
ces on the side covering his ears. “Do it,” is all he says, and I can tell he’s already got his jaw clenched. But we need this to work—we can’t risk him derailing every time he sees a box of CampGirl cookies.

  Mary’s helping Ned with the sensory inputs so I shuffle on over to the couch and make myself comfortable. It’s the normal, boring kind, doesn’t move or anything, and after a few minutes I stop trying to talk to it. It probably doesn’t have anything to say, anyway.

  She and Ned confer a minute more, and Ned fidgets with his doohickeys, and then they flip a switch on the helmet and it lights up and starts whirring and clanking like Frankenstein’s beanie. Tall hasn’t moved a muscle since giving the go-ahead, and there’s no big crazy display, no laser-light show sprouting from his eyes. He just sits there, and the helmet whirrs on.

  Boring.

  Ten minutes go by. Then another five. Finally Ned shuts off the helmet, and he and Mary approach Tall again. I’m close enough to hear what they’re saying, plus I’m eavesdropping shamelessly. Yeah, yeah, I’m nosy—hey, this is the only way I can still say that and be right.

  Anyway, Mary says, “Tall? How do you feel?”

  “Fine,” he replies. Could be a little terse, but usually it’s more than that. He’s still got the helmet on so I can’t read his expression. “We done?”

  “Perhaps.” Mary picks up the cookie box again and waves it between her and Tall. “Would you care for a cookie?”

  “Cookie?” The way he says that one word, all rushed and breathy and almost lilting, sends shivers up my spine. If I still had hair, it’d be standing up on the back of my neck. Too bad feathers don’t work the same way, but even without that I can hear the naked want in Tall’s voice.

  “Maybe later,” Ned says, patting Tall on the arm even as he fiddles with the settings again. “Here, let’s try this.”

  This time it’s twenty minutes before they shut Brad down and offer Tall cookies again.

  And again he practically lights up at the mention of CampGirl cookies. Nope.

  Take three. Thirty minutes this time, over an hour total. I shift around a bit on the couch. They zap Tall. Then Mary offers him cookies.

  “No, thanks,” he manages, and I can tell he’s clenching his jaw. She holds up the box and he resists for a second, then lunges for them. I’m halfway off the couch in an instant, but of course Mary can take care of herself. She sidesteps Tall’s rush and slams her hand hard, edge down, at his neck. He slumps across the table, and now Mary steps back a bit. She and Ned share a glance and shake their heads.

  Just our luck, the one time we need Tall to be susceptible and he’s hard as rock.

  “Sorry about that,” Tall says as he recovers enough to move back to his seat. “Couldn’t help myself.”

  “Which is exactly why we’re doing this,” Ned points out. “I’ve upped the intensity a little more. You ready?” Tall nods, and Ned throws another switch. This time I’m pretty sure I see his back arc as Brad assaults his mind, like he’s being electrocuted.

  Which, in a way, he is.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Results cloudy, try again later

  It takes three hours before Brad is finally able to break Tall. Three hours. Halfway through, I get bored and wander away to check email. When I come back, munching on some popcorn, they’re finally taking the helmet off. I’m pretty sure I see imprints from it burned into his hair and maybe even seared into his scalp. Ugh, pan-seared Tall. I put the popcorn down.

  “Tall, would you like a cookie?” Mary asks, and I can hear the weariness in her voice. After all, this is like the tenth time she’s had to ask that particular question. It’s like being a kindergarten teacher, but without the fun of warping young minds. Just one older one.

  “Get that thing out of my face,” Tall snarls, knocking the box away, and Ned breaks into a smile. Mary just nods.

  “I knew Brad would work!” Ned exults. “I knew it!”

  “Yeah, after three whole hours,” I point out. “Not quite as advertised, bub.”

  Ned frowns and pats the helmet as if its feelings might get hurt. Then again, for all I know maybe they could. I’ve had to console my couch a few times before, when I moved too quickly and startled it, or swept up something it was planning to ingest. Pets, I tell ya—your work is never done. They’re like kids, only without the ability to do chores. “It’s not Brad’s fault,” he says protectively. “Tall has exceptional willpower.”

  I snort, but Tall just nods. “All MiBs do,” he says, rising to his feet and stretching. He’s been sitting in the same chair the whole time, and I don’t envy him that. “It’s part of our training.”

  “Okay, so now that you’re cookie-proof,” I say, “what do we do next?” I look at Ned. “You think you can build an industrial-sized Brad to run the whole MiB headquarters through at once? Because if we’ve gotta deprogram them one at a time, that’s gonna take a while. And I’m gonna need to set up some cots or something.”

  Tall scowls, though it isn’t at me for once. “That’s not going to work,” he declares, and he doesn’t look too happy about it. “It’d take too long, and we don’t know what’s really going on here?”

  “You mean besides making all of you guys look like blithering idiots?” I offer. That earns me a classic number two death stare from him. Ah, good old Tall. So predictable.

  “Yes, besides that,” he grinds out. I swear, he must regrow his teeth at night, or replace them with a new set when nobody’s looking. I’m surprised he isn’t spitting ground-up tooth dust when he talks. “Whoever’s behind this, they’ve got something bigger planned. Incapacitating us is just the first step.”

  Ned interrupts his paranoid musing. “What makes you so sure it’s about you at all?” he asks, and somehow his flat face is completely devoid of sarcasm or snark. How does he do that? If I could deliver such a line straight-faced, I’d consider going back into customer service, preferably someplace like a bank or a restaurant where you see them face to face, just so I could watch people’s veins pop out and their eyes bulge as they tried to figure out if I was messing with them or not. Exactly like Tall’s doing right now.

  “No, seriously,” Ned continues, which kinda ruins it for me, “maybe it isn’t about the MiBs at all. Are other people being affected by the cookies? Or is it just the cookies that went to your office?”

  That’s actually a really good question, but I already know the answer. “It’s not just his office,” I tell them. “Tall brought me the first box but I ordered the rest myself, from different CampGirl troops around the U.S.—shipping charges were a bitch!—and all of them had the same effect on him.”

  Mary nods. “I noticed a strange aftertaste in the cookies when we tried them recently, and that was one of the boxes you ordered separately.”

  Tall studies her for a second, his eyes narrowed until they’re just beady little dots between his brow and his cheekbones. “Why didn’t it do anything to you?” he asks. That glare switches to me. “Or you? I saw you down an entire sleeve in one sitting”—that earns me a quirked eyebrow from Mary, and I suspect I’ll hear about my diet later—“and it didn’t make you any more . . .”

  “Sweet? Friendly? Delightful?” I flutter my eyelashes at him, or would if I had any—instead I flutter my nictating membranes, which has a similar effect but probably a little creepier. “But I’m already so sweet!” Tall snorts at that, Ned guffaws, and even Mary giggles. Yep, I still got it.

  “I believe I can answer that,” Mary offers, amusement still clear in her voice. When we first met I thought she didn’t even have emotions, and was basically a supercomputer brain in a sexpot body. But the more time we spent together, the more I realized she had a big heart. She just keeps it hidden most of the time because her scary intellect overshadows it. Her emotional responses tend to be on the subtle side as a result. Luckily I can be real observant when I want to be. “DuckBob and I were both augmented by the Grays,” she explains. “Although most of his changes c
enter on his avian morphology, and the majority of mine involve cerebral enhancement, I suspect the Grays made other minor adjustments as well. One of those seems to be in the realm of taste. I find I have a much broader and more discerning palate now than I did before.” She taps the cookie box with one crimson nail. “If these were designed to alter a normal human brain, and to gain access through the normal human suite of taste buds, our alterations could prevent those changes from taking hold.”

  “Yeah, I can taste something a little different to the cookies from what I remember,” I add. “It’s almost metallic, a little bitter, and I can’t place it but I don’t think anybody regular’s gonna notice at all.”

  Tall glances over at Ned, who shrugs and raises his hands. “Don’t look at me, I’m not even human to start with!” he protests. Which always throws me for a loop—how does a guy from a small planet near Betelgeuse look and sound so much like he was born and raised in the Bronx? What’d they, have the mother of all foreign exchange programs?

  “We need to find out who’s behind this,” Tall says again, pounding one hand into the other. I was never comfortable with that gesture—I know sometimes the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing, but does it really have to come to blows? “Then we can force them to tell us their evil plans.” And how does he know they’re really evil? What if they’re just misdirected, or confused, or slightly malicious? He’s jumping to some awfully big conclusions.

  “Do you think it’s the CampGirls?” I ask him. “I’ve never really trusted them, with their little badges and their vests and their caps and their handbooks and their campfire songs. They’re like a nationwide cult, only they’re knee-high.”