Too Small For Tall

by Rosenberg, Aaron

  “All right, all right—how old would you say he is?” I ask. Not having a full name makes it harder but not impossible.

  “How old is he?” Tall pauses to consider that for a moment. “He captured Monsinal Sha’ar in the early seventies, so he was definitely a full agent by then. That means he was at least twenty-one, which would make him sixty or older now.”

  Sixty? Really? Wow, I’d have pegged Smith as forties, probably. I hope I look that good when I’m his age! Hell, I wish I looked that good—body, not head—now!

  Anyway, I add that to the list I’m already inputting: government affiliation (even if he’s got some sort of cover job I figure he’s got security clearances out the whazoo), early to mid-sixties, average height, seriously narrow build, glossy black hair worn short and slicked back, gray eyes, New York city area and environs, male, white, last name “Smith.” Then I tell my system to go fetch.

  I’ve said it before, there are some very definite advantages to living in the Matrix Center. One of which is a computer that’s basically plugged into the entire galactic database. Ten minutes later—as I’m watching Tall polish off the last of his New York-style cheesecake, which actually looks pretty good, and seeing Jones demolish a chocolate éclair, my search engine turns up a hit.

  “Hey, I’ve got something!” I tell Tall, scanning the screen as the results show up. “Yep, I’ve got two Smiths that fit the bill. One, Henry Patrick Smith, lives in Manhattan, down in the Village. The other, Edmund Franklin Smith”—I read the details and grin. “The other leaves in Nutley, New Jersey, a short train and bus ride away.”

  Tall shares this data with Jones. “It would have to be Nutley,” he states after that. “The Village would be too noisy and chaotic after a full day as a MiB. He’d want somewhere quiet and peaceful to relax in, somewhere he could recharge a bit.” He glances up, catches the waiter’s eye immediately—how the hell does he do that?—and makes the universal sign for “Check, please!” Either that or he’s asking for a small bird to show up and start pecking at his nose. I’m guessing it’s the former. “Let’s go.”

  Jones doesn’t argue, she just shoves what’s left of that éclair into her mouth and slides out to stand by the booth. “Right.” She leads the way out, and doesn’t stop or appreciably slow down until she’s standing under the striped awning out front.

  Tall has stopped off long enough to pay the cashier on the way out. I don’t see Agent Jones offer him any money for her coffee and éclair, and Tall doesn’t ask her or hesitate at all before putting all of it on his card. Wouldn’t that make this almost a sort of semi-date, then? I shudder.

  The minute he’s outside as well, Jones turns on him. “You’ve been holding out on me,” she accuses. Her stern expression would work a lot better if not for that dab of chocolate beside her mouth. “You’ve got someone else helping you.”

  “I do,” Tall admits. “But not anyone from the agency. It’s—”

  “No, don’t tell her!” I shout into the mic. “Don’t say my name! Don’t—”

  “—DuckBob,” he finishes without even pausing to acknowledge me. Which is funny, considering he’s acknowledging me.

  I didn’t think Jones’s face could get much more wrinkled, but now it goes all prune-like. “That duck-headed clown from the Matrix? He’s helping you?”

  “Hey!” I squawk. “This duck-headed clown saved the galaxy, thank you very much!” With a little help, admittedly, but still, some respect would be nice!

  Much to my surprise, Tall stands up for me. “DuckBob may not look like much,” he admits, which makes me bristle a bit except that he continues, “but I have continually been surprised by his astuteness and his ability to hit upon innovative solutions. It was he who first deduced that the cookies were the source of the problem, and it is only with his help that I was able to discover as much as I already have about them.”

  Jones considers that, idly rubbing at that bit of chocolate. “Well, I suppose he wouldn’t have been made Guardian of the Matrix if he was completely useless,” she conceded finally, which is about as faint praise as I can imagine. “Fine. And he’s the one who just fed you Smith’s address?”

  “He is. DuckBob has access to almost every database in existence,” Tall explained, taking her elbow and guiding her away from the diner and toward the corner, where a subway entrance awaited. “He cross-referenced what details we had for Smith and came up with the address.” He’s right about the databases—I can get information about almost anything or anyone. Which sure surprised the hell out of Bobby McIntire, you betcha, especially when his confidential test results showed up on his Facebook page. That’s what you get for making me eat dirt in second grade, Bobby. And don’t worry, I’m sure some antibiotics will clean that right up. As far as the divorce, well, I guess posting those videos might have been overkill but you shouldn’t have kept them in the cloud, now, should you?

  “Well, I hope he got it right,” Jones grumbles as they descend the steps. “I’d hate to go all the way out to Nutley for nothing.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d love to send you out there for nothing, and leave you there,” I grumble back. “Good thing Tall’s with you, so it’s not worth the trouble.” It’s surprisingly easy to mouth off to people when they can’t hear you. I’m particularly good at doing that to people on TV, though I have to be careful about that now—my TV out here can be highly interactive, and more than once I’ve said something to some character on a series or some contestant on a show, only to have them turn and glare at me and snap something in reply. Yeah, the Matrix, where the line between reality and reality TV is so blurry you can lose it in the water ring from your drink.

  Chapter Thirty

  When a house calls, answer

  The ride out to Nutley is . . . unbelievably boring. I thought it was bad enough traveling with Tall, who can be silent for hours on end and can sit so still you’d think someone had unplugged his power pack, but at least when we were traipsing around the galaxy together I could mess with him, get a rise of him, have some laughs. The thing is, he’s learned to tune me out now—it helps that I’m not there, just a voice in his ear or in the bones of his jaw or whatever. And Jones is just as motionless and taciturn as he is. Maybe moreso. Actually, I suspect they’re actually having a “who can be more like a badly dressed statue?” contest but I can’t be sure because they never actually said as much. Still, about the only time they move over the next hour and a half is when they transfer from the subway to the bus, and once they’re on the bus they go right back to carved-from-granite mode. I’ve had more fun trying to race snails, and believe me, given the right motivation those little buggers can really crawl!

  Of course, staring at them—or at Jones, since I can’t actually see Tall unless he’s in front of a reflective surface—isn’t exactly riveting, so I only half pay attention. I check on the Matrix, just as an excuse to get up and walk around—there isn’t actually much for me to do to it, other than stay hooked up, so really as long as it’s still spinning and humming and all the lights are going, it’s in good shape. And whenever it stops any of those I call Ned, anyway. I’m the Guardian, not the Repairman!

  After I do that—and yes, it’s working fine, that little flicker and that one wobble are supposed to be there. I think—then I goof off on the computer for a bit, answer emails, update my blog, etc.

  Then I take a leak.

  Oh, the exciting life of the Guardian of the Matrix. Whee. It’s a good thing I’m easily amused or I’d be bored spitless.

  Not that I can really spit much, anymore.

  Anyway, finally Tall reaches up and tugs the cord—earning a little smirk from Jones, which I guess means she won—and they both stand up as the bus pulls over. “Wow, remind me never to take long road trips with the two of you,” I remark as Tall pushes open the rear door and half steps, half leaps down to the side of the road. “Not unless I desperately need to catch up on my sleep.”

  He ignores that completely—see? I
t’s like I’m not even there! Which I guess I’m not, exactly, but whatever, it’s still rude!—and scans the area. So do I.

  Uh, okay.

  “Hey, isn’t there supposed to be a city around here somewhere?” I ask. “Because all I see are . . . trees. And a road. And a few houses over yonder. Nobody told me Nutley was a county!” It’s been a while since I’ve seen anyplace as empty as this. Not counting space, I mean. Which turned out to be a whole helluva lot more crowded than I’d ever expected. But this is—well, when I moved to New York, all those years ago, I swore I was never not going to live in a big city ever again. I figure I can make an exception for the Matrix, because of the whole “saving the galaxy and watching over it” thing. Plus the pay is good. But Nutley looks an awful lot like a small town, way too close for comfort, and even though I’m only here remotely I still feel my skin crawl. Which is an awful feeling, especially under all these feathers.

  “We are on the outskirts of Nutley,” Jones confirms. “But it is not a big city, no. It has a total population of approximately twenty-seven thousand.” Well well, look who took some time to bone up on the facts! Must be trying to impress Tall. And twenty-seven thousand? Seriously? That’s like half a neighborhood in the Big Apple!

  “Listen, Smith lives at twelve-fourteen Orchard Lane,” I tell Tall. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? Being out here in the boonies is weirding me out, and your traveling companion isn’t helping any.”

  “We need to locate Orchard Lane,” Tall relays, leaving out the rest. Funny, I didn’t think he had tact, either. Guess this whole experience is a learning experience for both of us. He pulls out his phone, clicks open a map of Nutley, inputs the address, and watches as it traces a route from his current location right to Smith’s front door. Assuming it gets certain details—like which state we’re in, for starters—right. I’ve had those apps send me all over creation. One time they tried to tell me the fastest way from Weehawken to Whippany was by way of Boise. Those first two are both in New Jersey, by the way. Boise, not so much. Tall doesn’t seem too worried, though, as he gestures straight ahead. “This way.”

  Jones doesn’t argue, and neither do I—hey, it’s not like I’m the one who’d wind up lost, anyway! But his app must be government issue or something, because it doesn’t try to steer him wrong once, and after about twenty minutes we’re all staring at the front of 1214 Orchard Lane.

  Smith’s house is a nice little two-story job, all wood and shingles, with a pair of silver birches in the front yard on either side of a pleasant brick walk. There’s a big porch, complete with an old-fashioned porch swing off to one side past the big bay windows, and the front door itself is all carved wood around an oblong of frosted glass. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time a few centuries, and should be sitting here sipping lemonade or maybe a mint julep and asking if the carriage is ready.

  Tall doesn’t waste any time admiring the architecture. He charges down the walkway and up the porch steps and pounds one oversized fist against the door. Jones is right behind him.

  We wait.

  Nothing happens.

  “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic?” I suggest after a minute. “Or he’s taking a post-work nap?” I used to do those—still do, sometimes. And pre-work naps. And occasionally mid-work naps. Those were the ones my supervisors used to complain about but like I always told them, better I’m out for ten minutes than out of it for the entire rest of the day.

  Tall pounds again.

  Still nothing.

  “We could leave a note,” I offer, but just then I hear movement from inside. Tall must hear it too, because he stiffens and takes a step back, one hand going for his gun. Jones already has hers drawn—showing off again—and holds it up, both hands locked around its grip. Though after that stunt down in the cells I can’t imagine she needs more than one hand to hold it steady—hell, she could probably manage with just her trigger finger and maybe her thumb, and let the other three fingers wrestle or paint each other’s nails or something while they wait. Anyway, both of them are poised and ready when the door opens, and sure enough there’s Agent Smith—

  —only he’s not dressed like an agent.

  In fact, he’s wearing . . . a white polo shirt with thin yellow banding around the collar and the sleeves. Below that he’s got a pair of equally white shorts, and capping the other end of his almost inhumanly skinny legs are white socks and white tennis shoes. A white terrycloth headband holds his glossy black hair in place, and matching bands adorn each wrist.

  Somewhere between work and now, Agent Smith has been possessed—by the spirit of Bjorn Borg.

  It’s horrible.

  If he’s at all surprised to see Tall and Jones there, one with a drawn gun and the other clearly ready to draw, Smith doesn’t let on. “Agent Thomas, Agent Jones,” he says instead, in that dry, whispery voice of his that makes you expect to see tumbleweeds drift by at any second. “Perhaps you should come in.” And he steps back, pushing the door wide so they can slip past him.

  Tall does so at once, without question or hesitation. That’s him, though. He’s all about swift, decisive action. Me, I’d probably have stood there until the cows came home, debating all my options and asking a whole lot of annoying questions and eventually finding out just what it took to make Smith snap and shoot me right there on his front porch.

  From what little I can tell behind me, Jones isn’t entirely thrilled with this turn of events, but she follows Tall in anyway, and doesn’t let him get more than ten paces ahead as Smith maneuvers past them both and then leads the way into a cozy living room. The walls are done in tasteful wallpaper, the couches and matching armchairs are handsome but still look comfortable, the rug’s a pleasant vine-and-leaf pattern done in pale greens and blues and purples, and the curtains are a filmy white with an embroidered design of snowflakes. I feel like I’m in Alice in Wonderland’s Spring Collection.

  “Have a seat,” Smith instructs, and the way he says it makes it come across less as an invitation than as a command. Tall quickly takes one end of the couch, while Jones sinks into an armchair. Hell, I drop back into my desk chair, and I’m halfway across the Galaxy! “Now, what can I do for the two of you that required you to locate my home and breach my privacy?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Tall begins, and I can tell from his tone that he actually really does respect Smith. He sounds like a boy who’s just disappointed his dad big-time—and yeah, I know that sound all too well. At least Tall hasn’t blown anything up. Yet. “We wouldn’t have bothered you but we need some information from you.”

  “And whatever this is couldn’t wait until during work tomorrow?” Smith asks, just a hint of steel in his voice. Enough to make me shiver. “Besides, Agent Thomas, you are still on administrative leave.” He frowns, and it’s like a wolf showing all his teeth right before he tears into you. “I would be especially interested to know how you exited the facilities, in fact. I seem to recall speaking with you in the detainment level, and then—”

  “—and then you woke up and I was gone,” Tall finishes for him, which may be the bravest, riskiest, craziest thing I’ve ever seen him do. “Yes, sir. That’s exactly why we’re here, sir. You see, everyone in the agency has been compromised—everyone except Agent Jones and myself. Every other agent is now under the control of an outside force, and completely compliant.”

  “I see.” It’s clear from Smith’s voice that he thinks this is all a big joke, and not a very funny one at that. He folds his arms over his chest—Jesus, he’s so damn skinny for a second I think he’s just gonna fold himself up like a used napkin and disappear completely from view! “All of us, you say? Including me?”

  Tall sighs. “Stand up,” he says by way of reply, and I can see Smith start to say something else, then look really damn startled when he pries his narrow butt off the couch and rises to his feet. “Hop on one foot,” Tall continues. “Cluck like a chicken. Pretend you’re a mime stuck in an invisible box.” I always hated that one!
“Tell me your mother’s maiden name and your social security number.”

  Smith obeys all of those instructions, of course—turns out his mother’s maiden name was Gist—and looks none to happy about any of it. “Now do you believe me?” Tall asks finally, and Smith nods, slightly out of breath. Must have been the mime thing—those invisible cubes can be tricky!

  “What—” Smith starts to ask, but then he stops, straightens, and his eyes narrow. “Monsinal Sha’ar.”

  “Precisely.” Tall leans forward. “We need to know everything you can tell us about him, about his operation, about who else knew about him. Because someone has been using Jorbinate Sublimate.” I can hear his jaw clenching—it’s like a heavy rumble through my speakers—as he adds, “on us.”

  Smith nods. “There isn’t much to tell,” he says after a minute, sitting back down and closing his eyes for a second. “Monsinal Sha’ar had created a soda company and had begun producing orange soda, which he called Sunlight. But he added a little Jorbinate Sublimate to every bottle, and everyone who drank it became his slave. He got too eager, though, pushed too far too fast, and showed up on our radar as a result. We cut off his bank accounts, his electricity, his water and phones. Then we triggered the fire alarm at his factory, and once all the workers were clear we moved in and apprehended him.” He gives a short, dry chuckle. “I’ll give him this, he was polite and well-behaved, did exactly what we told him to do, never put up a fight. A model prisoner.”

  “He still is,” Tall agreed. “After this is all over, we might want to see about commuting his remaining sentence. He’s been alone in that cell for a very long time.” I see his hands clench, and know he’s forcing himself back on target. For now. “Who else knew about the chemicals?

  But Smith is shaking his head. “No one. Myself, my immediate superior Agent Trumble, Director Manaheim, and that’s it. We were careful to keep local authorities on a need-to-know basis, as usual—they were told he’d been poisoning the sodas and nothing more.”