Too Small For Tall

by Rosenberg, Aaron

  Why is that, anyway? Have you ever noticed how, when there are three things, there’s always one that’s okay but the other two are seriously dodgy, and usually in completely different ways? Did the story of Goldilocks somehow tap into some great cosmic truth, that in every trinity there’s one that too much of one thing, one that’s too much of another, and one that’s dead center and just right? And now I’m picturing the Hindu trinity for some reason, with Shiva saying “I’m too cold” and Brahma saying “I’m too hot” and Vishnu smiling smugly and saying “I am just right.” Good to know those Eastern Religion classes I took in college weren’t a total loss.

  Tall scoops up that third receiver, drops some coins into the phone, and dials a number. I hear ringing. Then it picks up, and a voice says, “Metro Investment Brokerage, how may I direct your call?” Which I have to admit is clever, because who wants to talk to investment brokers? I’m guessing most wrong numbers never make it past the second word.

  “I’m a day trader—get me the Actuarials Archive,” Tall replies, and there’s a click. Then a different voice says, “Report.”

  “Potential infestation of Comcobi slaver-wasps,” Tall says crisply. “Hive sighted at Strawberry Field, just below the footbridge. Full maturity in less than an hour.”

  “Copy,” is all the other man replies. Then the line goes dead. Tall hangs up, turns, and watches the building.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask him. “And what is a Comcobi slaver-wasp?”

  “It’s like a cross between a wasp and a pro wrestler,” Tall answers, though I can tell he’s focusing most of his attention on the MiB building ahead of us. “Big, mean, ugly, winged, poison stinger. They paralyze you and cart you off to sell as a slave, a pet, a host, whatever. Hives are shot out and fall to Earth, then sit and gestate until they’re ready to hatch. Each one contains a few hundred slaver-wasps. They can strip an entire town lifeless in an hour.”

  “Uh, right.” I gulp. “Next time, remind me not to ask.” I get it, though. “So you figure they’re gonna send out the big guns to deal with this hive, leaving nobody but the mailroom clerk to get in your way?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. I’m just glad, for once, I don’t have to see it, too.

  “And what if it’s the real deal?” I ask, because the notion of being carried off by something that looks like a pirate ship but captained by giant wasp-men in vests and boots and eye patches is more than a little bit terrifying. “I mean, I know you made this one up, but what if there’s a real menace while they’re out looking for this one?”

  “They’re still monitoring for disturbances and alerts,” he assures me, “so if there’s another threat they’ll deploy people for that as well. This’ll only keep them busy for an hour at best, but unless something equally dangerous hits it’ll be their top priority right now. And there hasn’t been a slaver-wasp hive here since 2009.” The way he says that makes it clear he knows that for dead certain, and I decide I really don’t want to know any more about how or why. I just hope he’s right.

  But sure enough, suddenly there’s a flood of dark-suit-wearing men charging out of the building and toward cars, trucks, minivans, and for some of them just racing past on foot. Wow, apparently Comcobi slaver-wasps are as big a deal as Tall said. I’ll have to remember that the next time I need to get rid of somebody.

  Also, I’m going to want about thirty cans of insect repellent. And a few dozen of those fog-bomb things, too.

  “So how many do you think just cleared out?” I ask Tall as he starts walking toward the building again. He’s not rushing, definitely doesn’t want anybody to pay him any attention, especially his co-workers. Because of course the black suit and the glower aren’t dead giveaways. Fortunately, the last few stragglers are so busy chasing the rest of the team they don’t even glance in our direction, and Tall waits until the last one has disappeared down the block before just up and walking to the entrance, pulling the big front door open, and stepping inside.

  There’s nobody in the lobby but us—well, Tall—and once those doors shut behind us it’s eerily quiet as well. Quiet as the grave, which isn’t exactly a comparison I’m keen to make.

  Tall doesn’t waste any time reminiscing. He makes a beeline for the elevator bank—and then marches past it, to a small door set in the lobby wall.

  “Wait, what’re you— ah.” Because Tall has swiped an ID card of some sort, a panel next to the door has winked green, and then he’s pulled the door open to reveal a narrow set of industrial metal stairs winding down, down, down.

  “You’re not seriously planning to walk down, are you?” I ask Tall. “Isn’t it something like eleven stories below ground? Would you even still be able to breathe after climbing down that far?”

  “I am, it is, and yes, I’ll be fine,” Tall answers. “Don’t worry about it—I’m in peak physical health.” He chuckles as he steps into the stairwell, pulling the door shut behind him. “Besides, down is a lot easier than up.”

  Which doesn’t really bode well for any escape plans afterward. Why couldn’t they have put their holding cells on the second floor, or even the third? Good natural light, decent noise, lots of restaurants and stores all around. I don’t think that small consideration is really too much to ask.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Picking up excitation

  Four minutes later, Tall’s barely breathing hard. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to catch my breath.

  Ever watch one of those Imax 3-D features? The ones where you’re riding a roller coaster or plummeting over a waterfall or scaling a mountain? The ones where you feel like you’re really there, it’s so crisp and clear and big and all-encompassing you can practically feel the water’s spray on your face, taste the thin high-altitude air, hear the screams of the people all around you?

  Now imagine that the latest feature is someone barreling down flight after flight of narrow metal stairs, nothing but rough whitewashed cinderblock walls around with harsh fluorescent bulbs overhead and sturdy metal fire doors at each landing. “Barreling” doesn’t really begin to cover it, though. “Controlled falling” might be closer. Or “flying downhill really really REALLY fast,” if you wanna be nice.

  I’m pretty sure Tall’s feet have only touched the ground for a step or two on each flight. He basically leans out and down, grasps the railings with both hands halfway down that set of steps, and then leaps out and swings wide, letting go at the top of his arc so he can plummet down, down—and land with his feet solidly on the landing below the last step. Then he swivels to the next flight and repeats the process.

  Except he’s taking maybe half a second on each swivel. And about ten seconds on each flight of stairs. It’s all going by in one sickening, nonstop blur. I feel like I’ve been strapped to a metronome that was set to seven-eighths time and then plugged into an accelerator or fed ground coffee straight from the can. Lean, swing, land, swivel, lean swing, land, swivel—my whole body is vibrating in sympathy, and I swear my arms are starting to ache from gripping my chair so tight by sheer reflex.

  “You. Are. Insane!” I finally manage to gasp as Tall lands one last time, right next to the door labeled “B11.” “You could have killed yourself doing that!”

  “It was the fastest way down,” he answers, straightening and brushing off his jacket and adjusting his tie. “We’re on a tight schedule.” Seriously, he’s not breathing any harder or faster than if he’d just walked quickly across the room. I’m starting to wonder if he had most of his real organs traded out for cheap alien knockoffs when I wasn’t looking.

  But I give up arguing as he pulls open the door and steps into the lobby of B11, the same doctor’s waiting room I saw last time. There’s nobody else here, no MiBs standing guard. So far so good. Tall crosses to the inner door, swipes his card again—I guess they never bothered to deactivate the thing when he took off, which seems strange but I’m not gonna look a gift ID in the mouth—and enters t
he hall beyond.

  The guy we want is in the third cell on the right.

  “Monsinal Sha’ar?” Tall asks as he enters, though the way he spits out the name it’s less a question than an accusation. It’s amazing how he can make anything sound like that—I’ve heard him order dinner before and the delivery guys are always really apologetic and swear the restaurant will shape up and behave next time.

  “Yes?” The Martian Manero doesn’t look too fazed, but I guess he’s had plenty of practice dealing with MiBs.

  “I need to ask you some questions.” Tall closes the door behind him, grabs the one chair—Sha’ar’s sitting on his bed and has a deck of cards laid out in front of him, solitaire-style—spins it around, and drops onto it.

  “After all this time?” Sha’ar smiles and spreads his hands wide. Except for the weird skin he could be right out of a Solid Gold flashback video or a Bee Gees movie. With the skin he looks like a giant chameleon that landed on somebody’s favorite tie and got mighty confused. “I assure you, I have not done anything new.” Okay, at least the guy’s got a sense of humor. After so many years stuck in here I guess it’s that or lose it completely.

  I’m also wondering how they handle laundry in this joint, because his white suit looks pristine, as does his shirt. For that matter, his hair is perfect and his shoes are shined to a high gloss. I don’t see any spare clothes, though, so do they press everything while he’s still wearing it, or what? Is there a complimentary robe with “Imprisoned Alien” stenciled across the back or something?

  “This is about what you did back then,” Tall explains, and he’s gruff but not up to chewing rocks. After all, this guy’s been locked away in here since before Tall was born. Kinda hard to hold a grudge at that point. “You used Jorbinate Sublimate, didn’t you?”

  Sha’ar sighs and lifts a card, idly flipping it between his fingers as he talks. “Yes, I did. I’m impressed, Agent—at the time, no one knew what it was called or where it came from. I gather you’ve got some new sources.”

  I can almost hear the skin of Tall’s cheeks creasing as he smiles. “Fah-te says hi.” That’s Worm-with-hands’s name, Fah-te, which to me sounds like “Fatty” but whose fault is that? I’m just glad I’m not the one who has to repeat it with a straight face. Then again, Tall is grinning, so maybe he wasn’t immune, either.

  “Ah.” Sha’ar turns and leans back against the wall, his head tilted up, eyes closing for a second. “You know, I have not heard from or really thought of him in at least two decades. Is that cruel of me? He was a loyal employee, not quite a partner and not quite a friend but certainly someone I felt I could trust with our business and with our secrets. I hope you did not hurt him?” Sha’ar’s voice is soft and whispery, and makes me think of old books where the paper’s so worn it’s soft like cloth and just as supple. Somehow I have a hard time picturing this guy as an evil mastermind—he sounds more like he should be reading kids stories in the library after school. Admittedly, from behind a screen or something.

  “He’s fine,” Tall replies, and surprises me by adding, “and he didn’t give you up easily. But I saved his life so he felt he owed me.”

  Sha’ar nods. “Of course. He is very loyal, and very conscientious about his debts.” He smiles and twirls that card again. “Well, since you clearly know how I came by the Sublimate, what else can I tell you?”

  Tall leans forward and I see his hands tighten on the chair top. “What was the plan?”

  “Oh, that?” He actually laughs, this refugee from the glam years. “The same as most, I suppose—to take over the world. Rule it, or at least have it pay homage—I was less interested in the day-to-day responsibilities than in the massive wealth and power I would have accrued.”

  “And how did you plan to do this, exactly?” Once again, dog with a bone.

  The alien dips his head. “I included the Sublimate in a drink I created, and spread it widely to affect as many people as possible. Once they’d tasted it they craved more, so it was easy to keep them under control. Then, when I had enough, I was going to have them storm the capital and take over. The United Nations would have been next, and then each country individually, with the effect spreading until the entire world answered to me.” The way he says it, so calmly, sends shivers up my spine.

  “What was the drink?” I demand into the mic, and Tall repeats the question a second later.

  That prompts a second laugh. “It was a new soda,” Sha’ar answers once he’s recovered. “I called it Sunlight.”

  I.

  Am.

  So.

  Stupid.

  Of course! It all fits! Sunlight came out in the late seventies to early eighties and caught on like crazy. It’s still around now, and still popular, even though I’m assuming it doesn’t have the Sublimate in it any more, just the usual sugar and caffeine and flavoring, but I remember everybody still being absolutely nuts about it by the time I came along.

  “What happened?” Tall asks next, and Sha’ar sighs.

  “I got careless,” he admits. “I tried to expand my operation too quickly, tried to control people too overtly, and someone noticed. The next thing I knew, my company was being sold to another, my factory was shut down and all my supplies impounded, and I had two agents showing up at my door to escort me here.” He waves an arm around the tiny cell. “And I have been here ever since.”

  “Someone’s started your operation back up,” Tall informs him sharply, like it’s this guy’s fault somehow. “Somebody who knew about the Sublimate. Who did you tell?”

  The guy actually looks startled, though it could be an act. “No one!” He leans forward slightly. “I never told a soul how I had done it, or where I had gotten the powder. They asked, of course, the agents who brought me in, but I refused to answer. I have not heard its name outside my own innermost thoughts until now.”

  I’m thinking about that. This poor schlub’s been sitting here rotting for the past thirty to forty years. So why is it only now that somebody got hold of more Jorbinate Sublimate? If whoever it was had already known what he was using and where it was from, why not go get more back then? Why wait all these years? Unless they didn’t know, and only just found out. But how?

  “What happened to the stuff that got confiscated?” I ask Tall. “Did they destroy it or lock it away somewhere?”

  “Probably destroyed,” he answers under his breath, and it doesn’t look like Sha’ar caught the exchange. “They couldn’t have been sure it didn’t give off poison fumes or something, so they wouldn’t have risked keeping it around.”

  Great. If it had been here we’d just have to figure out where it went next and who got hold of it. Without that, though—how the hell would they even know what they were looking for?

  Tall’s obviously been thinking along the same lines, because his next question is, “How many agents stormed your operation, in all?”

  “Just those two,” Sha’ar answers. He gathers the cards without looking down at them, tidies up the stack, then shuffles it. Then again. He’s good, Vegas casino-good, fast and skilled and with just the right amount of flourish. “I think there were local officers to cordon off the building,” he continues, “but your fellow agents didn’t let them come in contact with any sensitive material.”

  Great, yet another case for a MiB being involved in all this. Even if was several decades ago.

  But wait . . . I grab my mic. “Tall,” I say quickly, “find out who they were. The two agents.” They were the ones on the scene, after all. If anybody had access to the Sublimate—and the means to smuggle even a little sample out—it’d be them.

  “What were their names?” he asks. “The two agents?”

  But Sha’ar shakes his head. “It has been over thirty years,” he reminds. Funny thing is, he doesn’t even seem mad about that. I guess he’s had time to get used to the idea. “I cannot remember.”

  Tall tries a different tack. “What did they look like?” Smart—there can’t have been
that many MiBs back then, he should be able to find a picture that matches the description. Assuming he can get access to the pictures.

  I glance at my watch. He entered the building fifteen minutes ago. And told me the slaver-wasp decoy might keep the other MiBs busy for an hour at most.

  But it’s hard to rush a memory. Especially after so long. Sha’ar’s got his eyes closed, his brow furrowed, and sweat starts popping out along his forehead. It’s like he’s trying to pull that memory to the surface through sheer will, one step at a time.

  But after another minute he opens his eyes, and his disappointed expression isn’t reassuring. “I can no longer remember the second agent,” he tells us quietly. “I am sorry. But the first one, him I remember. I do not know that I have ever met another human being that thin, so much so that I initially wondered if he might be one of the Lamgedar, who are in fact two-dimensional.” Heh, sounds like a lot of the women I used to date.

  “What else?” Tall asks, but there’s a sigh hidden behind his words. Like he can already guess where this is going.

  “Hm.” Sha’ar rubs at his chin. “Yes, well, let’s see—thin I already said, sharp features, hair similar to mine but not as tall”—he pats his own hair, which could probably brush the ceiling if we let it loose—“and a well-cut suit.”

  Tall shakes his head. “And you’re sure you can’t tell me anything else about who might have gotten hold of that powder, or at least found out its name and where it’s from and how to contact Fah-te?”

  “I promise you, I have not said a word to anyone,” Sha’ar states again. He looks around and smiles. “After all, who would I tell?”