Too Small For Tall

by Rosenberg, Aaron

  “Where are Agent Trumble and Director Manaheim now?” It’s the first time Jones has spoken in all this, and Smith raises an eyebrow as he glances over at her. That little facial expression is like a slap in the face, and I can see her pale a bit—which does not look good on her—but she holds her ground and after a second he smiles. Well, his lips twitch. I think that’s about as good as it gets with him.

  “Director Manaheim passed away in 1983,” Smith answers, shaking his head. “Natural causes—he was already in his sixties by the time I started with the agency, and ours is hardly a low-stress work situation. Agent Trumble died a year later, shot accidentally by a panicked Velcanite at a routine traffic stop—the Velcanite had packed a Joruvian card-blaster in case of a mugging, and grabbed that up along with his galactic visa, shot Trumble right in the chest, he died instantly. He was a good man.” He sighs. “So you see, neither of them could have been involved in this, and I assure you I was not.” I believe him, too. First off, he’s always struck me as the ramrod-straight, stick-up-his-butt type—no way he’d violate protocols and go off the reservation and all that other stuff. Second, he’s clearly under the influence himself, and what kind of mastermind lets himself get doped with his own mind-control drug? Which just leaves one option:

  “What about his partner?” I remind Tall, who nods and repeats the question out loud.

  Smith looks surprised. “My partner?” He purses his lips, and his eyes unfocus. “My partner. Yes, that’s right, I did have a partner! It was . . . it was . . .” I don’t know about them but I’m on the edge of my seat—yes, I’m being careful about it—but after a few seconds Smith shakes his head. “I don’t remember the name. I’m sorry.”

  I’m pretty sure Tall looks as shocked as I feel. “You don’t remember his name?” he says, and he certainly sounds stunned. “You? You remember every detail of every case you’ve ever worked, and every case you’ve overseen. You could probably tell me the color and pattern of the tie of the agent who first recruited you.”

  “Blue and silver, herringbone, Perry Ellis label, silk,” Smith replies at once. “Very nice.” His lips are still puckered in thought, if lips can think, and there’s a noticeable new crease between his brows. “No, you’re right, that is strange.”

  Tall sighs, but he doesn’t sound as crushed as I feel. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen this,” he says, and I remember what he’s talking about. The cookie factory! That guy Reg completely forgot he’d been the one to spike the cookies, until Tall ordered him to remember. Sure enough, the next thing he says is “remember your old partner, even if you were told to forget him.”

  Smith nods and opens his mouth, but shuts it again a second later. “No, I still can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  I can actually hear Tall’s frown. It sort of twists his words sideways a little as he says, “That should have worked.”

  “Yeah, it should have,” I agree. “But it didn’t. So what now, chief?”

  Tall shakes his head in response. “We need to find out who your old partner was,” he tells Smith, and Jones nods agreement. “He’s got to be the key to all this.”

  “Perhaps his work history will tell us,” Jones offers. “The file request may have come through by the time I get back.” But she doesn’t sound too convinced, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. If Mr. Perfect Recall can’t remember his own partner’s name, why would some old report still have it? This guy’s got to be more thorough than that.

  “We’ll think of something,” Tall declares as he stands up. “Whoever’s behind this, I’m not going to let him get away with it.” Jones rises to her feet as well, and so does Smith. “Oh, one more thing, sir,” Tall says as he starts to turn toward the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Snap out of it.”

  Smith’s eyes clear, and the easy-going attitude he’s been wearing since we got here vanishes, revealing the coiled-spring cobra-strike posture he’s always had before. “And you waited until you were leaving to do that why, exactly?” he asks, each word like a little laser aimed at Tall’s throat.

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t answer our questions otherwise,” Tall admits, and I’m pretty sure he’s giving his superior a nasty grin. “And I didn’t have time to waste.”

  I’m surprised when Smith nods, just a tight little incline of the chin. “Understood. That will, of course, go in my report.” I’m wondering if he’s going to say anything about Tall’s suspension—and how he and Jones are the only ones dealing with what’s a clear and obvious threat to the entire agency, despite that restriction—when something beeps. Smith pulls a Bluetooth earpiece out of his pocket, inserts it in his ear, and taps it. “This is Smith.” He listens for a second, nods. “Understood. Thank you.” Then he sighs and glances over at Tall again. “You might want to contact your avian-adjusted friend and warn him to batten down the hatches.”

  “What? DuckBob? Why?” Tall says that the same time I blurt out “What? Me? Why?” It’s like we’re on the same wavelength! Which I guess makes sense, given the long-range frequency of this camera doohickey.

  “Because our security sweep detected an unauthorized transmission from his location to our headquarters,” Smith answers. “It bypassed all of our blockers and jammers, but the new systems were able to trace it back.” He sighs. “And someone authorized a strike team to respond. With extreme prejudice.”

  “Extreme prejudice?” I try to swallow, but my throat’s gone all dry and raspy. “Tell me that means they’re just gonna say nasty things about my momma.”

  But Tall’s already racing out onto the porch. “No,” he answers as he moves. “It means you’ve got a dozen or more MiBs heading your way, weapons hot, with orders to kill anything that moves and then sanitize the entire area.”

  Gulp. And here I thought I was sitting safely on the sidelines. Who knew the sidelines were about to turn into Ground Zero?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Get out of my head!

  “Crap! What do I do? What do I do?” I’m up from my computer and pacing around the living room fast enough that my couch is edging back from me warily like it thinks I might suddenly pounce on it. Good to know—the couch can be scared into staying put. But I’m not really focused on that right now. I’m a little busy thinking about the strike team headed my way, all those MiBs just itching to shoot me or burn me or whatever they’ve got handy. And oddly enough, the thought that keeps popping into my head is “do I have anything for them to eat? Should I set out some chips and maybe some veggies and dip, or order some pizzas?” Thanks, Mom—you trained me so well even in a crisis I worry about entertaining.

  Explains a lot about me, actually, doesn’t it?

  “Hang on, DuckBob!” Tall is shouting at me. A glance at the monitor shows him sprinting down some street in Nutley, and the dark flicker to one side says Jones is keeping pace. For now. “We’re on our way! Mary!” He adds, and it takes me a second to realize that’s not aimed at me. Hey, my lady and I are close but we are not interchangeable! “I need a pickup immediately, two of us, to the Matrix! DuckBob’s in trouble!” If that doesn’t get her attention, nothing will.

  I glance around the room. “What should I be doing right now?” I ask. Do I have any weapons anywhere? Not really, no. I mean, I could try wielding my monitor like a giant shield, maybe, and freeze or at least severely frostbite anybody who gets too close. But that’s not going to do me much good, not when they’ve got pistols or lasers or something else with more range than my armspan. I’ve got random foodstuffs, but even the dangerous ones usually require ingestion first and I doubt these guys are gonna want to stand still and open their mouths just ’cause I ask ’em to.

  Though, come to think of it, they might. They’re probably all cookie zombies, right? So they’ll do anything anyone tells them to. Including me. Hm. I stop pacing and start grinning. This could wind up going easier than I thought.

  Here’s the really funny thing, the thing that proba
bly happens in most war movies and thrillers but you don’t actually see it. Normally, somebody says something like “Oh no, they know we’re here!” or “Oh no, they’re coming this way!” and then there’s a few tense moments, and then just as they—and we—are starting to relax again, bam! Something or someone attacks. Right?

  Except really, in most case it’d more like “Oh no, they know we’re here!” or “Oh no, they’re coming this way!” Followed by a whole lot of waiting. We’re talking an hour or two, minimum. The heroes are all scared and nervous and wired—for the first few minutes. Then they start to settle down a little. They catch their breath. They remember they haven’t eaten all day. They take a quick catnap. They bandage their wounds. And then they go back to watching, but they know there’s probably still time, so why be on high alert?

  Now take that and multiply it a time or three. The fastest Tall’s ever made it out here—or back to Earth after here—is three or four hours. And that’s when he’s moving like a bat out of hell but still taking the bus and the car and all that, instead of asking the Grays for a quick teleport. So we’re talking about three or four hours, minimum, from Earth to here. Which is probably gonna seem maddening to those poor MiBs with their SWAT gear and all that, stuck taking the train with all those weapons and all that body armor and so on. It’ll be like that scene you see in every movie, the elite strike force all suited up and raring to go—only dragged out to the length of an entire mini-series. They’ll probably crash from the adrenaline high and still have time to wake back up afterward.

  Me?

  I get a beer, make some lunch, eat, play on the computer—I mean, access the Matrix status reports—and talk to Mary. She offers to come over and help me fend off the attack, of course. And I tell her no, stay put, wherever she is. I actually don’t know where she is at this point. Come to think of it, I don’t even know if she has a place of her own, since it’s not like I can ever go there—thanks to the Matrix, all of our dates are pretty much at my place automatically. It’s possible she just hangs out on various Gray ships in between whatever missions they give her, or rents a hotel room in whatever city or planet she’s in at the time. I should really ask her about that.

  Anyway, I tell her not to worry about it. “Tall’s on his way,” I remind her, “just as soon as the Grays can beam him up.” Apparently there’s a queue. “And much as I’d love to have you here, and would appreciate the moral support, we’d both just be in his way.” Plus, and this part I don’t tell her, but if something does happen to me, somebody’s gonna have to tell my mom.

  Personally, I’d rather face the entire MiB agency than that. One of the best things about being stuck all the way out here in the center of the galaxy—I can’t exactly go home on weekends.

  It takes some doing, but I finally convince Mary that it’s better if she stays where she is. And I promise to let her know once Tall gets here, and once everything’s taken care of.

  Then I take a nap. Because, really, what’s the point in getting all worked up about it hours ahead of time? I figure I’ll worry about it properly when they get here.

  Which I know they have when I hear somebody kick in my front door.

  “Hey!” I shout, clambering up from the couch—leaping off it is dangerous, as I discovered one time when I suddenly remembered I’d left the hot chocolate on in the kitchen and the couch, ever helpful, turned itself into something between a beanbag and a springboard. It’s a good thing I looked up in time to smack bill-first into the ceiling, because otherwise I’d probably have cracked my skull. So this time I’m a little more cautious. And I’m careful not to get in sight of the front hallway as I yell, “stop shooting and drop your weapons!”

  There’s a satisfying clatter a second later. Yep, definitely cookie zombies.

  “Everybody, drop your weapons!” I add even louder. And trust me, I can project—being heard was never a problem for me anyway and do you have any idea how much lung capacity a duck has, relatively speaking? Lots. I can hold my breath underwater for a good ten minutes or more. And I can shoot a sunflower seed across a regular cafeteria hard enough to leave a dent in the far wall. Try that at home! So yeah, when I raise my voice and project properly, I’m pretty sure all the MiBs preparing to attack me can hear.

  Which doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to assume they were all listening, and are now all completely unarmed.

  Nor do I assume that “unarmed” means “harmless.” I’ve seen Tall take down a dozen invaders with nothing but hands, feet, forehead, and attitude. These guys may not be quite in his league, but they’re head and shoulders above mine and there’re twelve of them to one of me. Not my best odds.

  So I need to even the playing field. “Go to sleep!” I holler. And there’s the distinct sound, immediately after, of bodies falling over. Yes, I know it well—my Aunt Arlene was a narcoleptic, used to pass out if she laughed too much. We all competed to see who could make her drop off fastest. Cruel, I know, but at least she was always smiling. And between us and Uncle Joe we did our best to keep her away from any hard surfaces.

  I wait another minute or two, listening as best I can. I don’t hear anybody trying to sneak up on me, but that just means they’re good at it. Still, I’m guessing at least half the strike team is down. Not bad for a guy whose best offense is usually his foot odor. Hey, what do you want, it’s hard to keep things this big clean!

  The question, though, is what’m I gonna do about the rest of the team? Maybe they’ve got earplugs in, or they’re wearing headphones and jamming out to some “attack and destroy” action mix, or maybe this half is deaf and only uses sign language and smoke signals to communicate. Whatever it is, if they didn’t disarm and then pass out already I’ve got to assume commands won’t work on ’em. Which doesn’t leave me a lot of options.

  Though those options suddenly explode upward when I hear a faint jingling somewhere nearby—and the air in the middle of the living room starts to shimmer. I’ve seen this sort of thing before, so I’m not completely surprised when that area starts to glow, blue and then pink and then red and then back to blue, getting brighter and brighter all the time.

  Then the glow fades, and there’re two people standing there. Both of ’em are big and bulky, but one’s taller and leaner. The other’s got a face like a bulldog.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you!” I tell Tall, clapping him on the shoulder and almost getting a punch in the face for my troubles. Which would’ve served him right, really—hitting me in my bill is a lot like slamming your fist into a concrete pylon, or so I’ve been told by a really pissed-off fellow commuter and a really intrigued EMT. I take a quick step back anyway, though. No sense antagonizing Tall when he’s clearly raced here to rescue me.

  “Are they here yet?” he asks, already dropping into that “ready for action” crouch of his, his pistol emerging from under his jacket.

  “Yeah, they showed up a minute before you did,” I tell him, nodding hello to Agent Jones—I can’t hate her too much if she’s here to save me—and getting a dismissive chin-jerk in reply. “I think I put half of ’em to sleep, though.”

  “What’d you do, tell them your fantasy football scores?” Tall grins, peering around the corner and down the hallway. And pulls back fast as someone shoots at him.

  “Ha ha. I still don’t see how it counts as fantasy football if I’m not allowed to use orcs and wizards and battle axes.” That’d be a helluva lot more interesting—not to mention my team would probably stand a better chance. They couldn’t do much worse. “But no, I ordered them to sleep.”

  Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve seen Stare Number Six! But that’s what I get now as Tall looks up at me, then nods. “Nice. Only took out half, though?”

  “I think so, yeah. Not sure why.” He shrugs and fires down the hall, which gets a small flurry in return. I hope they don’t put too many holes in this place—I don’t think Home Depot has sparkly purple crystal spackle. “So what do we do now?”

  T
all glances over, not at me but at Jones, and nods. “Now we subdue the rest of the strike team,” he answers, “and then deprogram them. Ready?” She nods—she’s yet to say a word since she got here, maybe she figures that way it’s less like she’s going someplace she’s not supposed to be or maybe she’s just worried I’ve got a security system and I’d have voice records that she was here—and moves to the wall right behind him. Then she starts shooting toward the front door and Tall takes advantage of the distraction, rounds the corner, and takes off at a full run.

  A second later I hear a dull thud, followed by a muffled grunt and another thump. That happens again, and a third time. “All clear here,” Tall calls out then. It sounds like he might actually be breathing hard! Amazing!

  “How many other entrance points are there?” Jones demands, glaring over at me like somehow this is all my fault. Hello, those cookies don’t even affect me! And yeah, the MiBs are here to take me out, but only because I was trying to help Tall!

  I’m trying to be nice, though, so I take a minute to consider her question. “From this room?” I ask. “Two—the one to the main Matrix chamber, there, and the one there to the kitchen and the bathroom and the bedroom.”

  “How many other ways into the building itself?” She’s looking down the hallway again, her back to me, but I can hear her eye-rolling anyway.

  “Oh.” Yeah, I guess that might be important. At least I know the answer to that one without having to stop and think about it. “None.”

  She glares at me like my old Algebra teacher, Mrs. Hendricks, whenever she’d call on me. What? I’m not good at doing math under pressure! Especially when it involves letters—I like to keep my letters and my numbers separate, thank you very much! When they mix it just gets messy, in an abstract sort of way.

  “None?” Jones repeats like she can’t believe I’d dare even suggest that. Just like Mrs. Hendricks used to. “You’re saying this is the only way in or out of this entire complex?”