It was after midnight and Kaden was still at work. It wasn’t fair—he’d had plans for tonight that were gone now because his manager had insisted he stay late. The young waiter was handsome, lean, and tall. His black hair was styled in short dreadlocks and he was dressed in Moroccan-style street clothes. He dragged a mop across the wet tile floor of the banqueting room in the cafe he worked in. He listened to dance music on the local radio station on a cheap little portable radio that was up on a shelf. He let the music’s driving beat distract him and danced a few moves as he mopped.
The music was suddenly lost in a wash of hissing and popping static. The television on the wall had snapped on by itself; the picture on the screen of a televised soccer match was warped and distorted. Kaden looked around, startled and confused as the overhead fans that had been rotating lazily jumped to life and began spinning faster than they ever had, shaking violently and starting to come loose from the ceiling. As quickly as it had begun, the chaotic flurry of activity stopped. The power shut off and plunged the whole cafe into darkness.
“It’s the fuse!” the manager called out in French. “Go! Fix it!”
Kaden rolled his eyes. “If you paid for your own electricity, this wouldn’t happen. Cheapskate.”
“I heard that!” the manager bellowed. “Allez!”
The waiter sighed, leaned his mop against a wall, and headed up to the roof and the fuse box.
Kaden used his phone’s light to navigate the dark stairs that led him up to the cafe’s roof. Once he reached the top he noticed that it wasn’t just their power that was out. The buildings all around him for a block were also dark. He might as well check the fuse box anyway; the manager would only ask about it if he didn’t.
He navigated the cluttered rooftop, avoiding tangles of wires and cables and a forest of television antennas on his way to the small, antiquated fuse box mounted on a crumbling retaining wall. Kaden opened the box and held his phone closer to peer inside. There was a tangle of old wires, many wrapped with black electrical tape. Some of the sockets for fuses were covered with peeling masking tape that someone had long ago scribbled DO NOT USE on, in both French and Arabic. He sighed, shook his head in disgust, and began to fiddle with the loose wires, hoping he wouldn’t get shocked.
There was a spark and a crack from the box. Kaden jumped back as the building lights came back on, including the few lights on the roof. Kaden didn’t see, but behind him, on the other side of the roof, something that was not human stood, something from another world. It was faceless, amorphous. It looked as if it might be observing him.
The lights went out again, plunging the roof back into darkness. Kaden cursed under his breath and tried to recall which wires he had jiggled to make the power come back. The lights stuttered and came on once again. There were now two identical faceless creatures behind Kaden, closer than they had been a moment ago. The fuse box snapped and a flash of blue electricity arced between the wires. The roof plunged into darkness yet again.
Kaden fumbled in his pocket and removed a small coin, a ten-santimat piece. He found an empty fuse socket and wedged the coin into it, jerking his hand back as the box once again tried to bite him with electricity. He nursed his stinging fingers as the lights came on and stayed on this time. Kaden smiled and turned to return to the cafe and his chores.
The two faceless creatures were directly behind him.
Kaden screamed as the things from another world reached out to grab him. After a moment, his scream faded away. Kaden’s lifeless body crashed down from the roof to hit the floor of an abandoned alleyway beside the cafe. His form was covered in a viscous goo, and his features were melting away.
A moment passed and then two men—identical twins in appearance, who bore a striking resemblance to the late Kaden—walked past the liquefying body. The twins wore clothing that closely resembled Kaden’s attire. They didn’t give their victim even a passing glance as they disappeared into the night.
* * *
First came the dawn, then came the merchants, and finally the customers. The open-air markets of Marrakech were legendary for their color, vibrancy, and chaotic noise. The alien twins made their way down a narrow street, pausing now and then to examine both the usual and unusual things they passed—they were new to this planet—finally arriving at a small curio shop just down the street from the Souk Semmarine, one of the city’s greatest, and most famous, marketplaces. Outside the shop, numerous items had been displayed to entice wealthy tourists to inquire within.
A delivery man had just dropped off a pile of overnight packages near the door. Both aliens seemed confused by the purpose and function of the knick-knacks arrayed outside the shop. One of the twins paused and regarded the dead glass eyes of a stuffed ocelot. “We need to see the Queen,” he demanded of the long-dead animal. There was no response from the ocelot.
The other twin looked at his brother like he was an idiot and gestured toward the door to the shop’s interior. The first twin nodded and picked up the ocelot to carry with him inside. The second twin stopped him, took the stuffed animal away, and set it back down on its stand outside before they both entered the shop.
The tinkling of tiny brass bells on the door and the dimming of the overhead lights heralded the arrival of the twins into the cool, shady interior of the cluttered and cramped curio shop. The store’s lighting flickered at the twins’ arrival. The shopkeeper was a cadaverous scarecrow of a man with bushy eyebrows that gave him an owl-like appearance. He looked up from the old book he was reading to regard the twins.
The lights kept dimming and surging as the pair wandered about the shop, touching random items, their expressions filled with amusement at what humans seemed to value.
The shopkeeper glanced up at the shuddering lights and then back to the twins. “Help you guys with something?”
“Oui,” one of them said, casually plucking up a statue in the shape of a hand as he walked toward the glass counter.
The owner winced a little at the cavalier way the twin picked up the sculpture and pointed to the statue. “Be careful. You break it, you buy it.” The sculpture of the hand flowed and melted in the first twin’s hand. It became a vaguely hand-like blade with nasty, serrated edges and a wicked, curved point. The shopkeeper’s eyes widened. “Or… I can sell it to you for half price?”
“Non,” the other twin said, now approaching the counter as well. The shopkeeper took a few steps back, his eyes locked on the blade in his brother’s hand.
“Keep it, keep it,” he said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “On me.”
“We need to see the Queen.” The first twin placed the blade on the counter.
The shopkeeper relaxed a bit and nodded. With his foot, he pushed a concealed button on the floor, and the wall of shelves behind him folded up and slid away to reveal a thick and regal-looking curtain.
“This way,” the shopkeeper told them.
Beyond the curtain was another room full of antiques, ancient and very valuable. Some of the items in the room, the twins recognized as being artifacts from hundreds of different worlds and many different ages. The shopkeeper held the curtain open for the twins and then followed them into the secret room, the shelf wall sliding back into place behind them.
At the center of the room on a pedestal was an ornate chess set. The exquisite stone and minerals used in making the board and the design of the pieces was not of Earth. The dark green and white squares of the board were elevated to different, seemingly random, heights. One end of the board had tall black columns that seemed to represent a “palace” of sorts. As they approached the pedestal, the twins saw the tiny pieces fold and change from their static appearance, and begin to move. The “pieces” were very small alien beings, each wearing armored suits and costumes that represented the parts they played on the board.
“Hey,” the shopkeeper called down to the miniature royal court arrayed on the chessboard, “you have customers.”
A four-inch-tall “pa
wn” wearing a conical helmet adorned with red hexagons on a black field, and brandishing a kite shield and an alien blaster weapon in his two tiny arms, looked up at the looming twin giants. The pawn’s skin was dark green and scaly, and his features were similar to a tadpole’s, with big, amber eyes, no nose, and a tiny slit of a mouth. The pawn moved forward two squares and addressed the twins in a voice much louder than his minuscule size belied. “State your business with the Queen.”
“We need someone to die.”
One of the twins activated a holographic dossier. The 3-D visage of a lumpy blue humanoid alien appeared in the air over the chessboard. The data stream to the side of the display identified the alien as “Vungus,” a member of the Jababian species.
The pawn examined the data and then glanced back toward the black columns. The Queen, the same species as the pawn, though a little taller, appeared among the pillars on the board. She wore a glowing gown of crimson and a high hat-like helmet that served as a crown. She regarded the alien twins looking down on her kingdom and then scanned the information from the hologram that was slowly rotating above the board. She pointedly cleared her throat. The pawn approached his sovereign. The Queen gave a curt shake of her tiny, regal head. The pawn bowed and turned back to the twins.
“As clearly stated in Section 6a of the Treaty of Andromeda Two, we do not kill Jababians or participate in the murdering of.” The twins glared at the pawn and his queen as they shut off the hologram. The pawn continued, either oblivious or unconcerned with the pair’s obvious displeasure, “Not that we couldn’t do it. I mean, Jababians are hard to kill, sure, but not impossible. There’s a deadly little toxin called Zephos…”
The twins’ glares of anger softened, and smiles spread across their faces as they looked down upon the pawn, the Queen, and her tiny court.
9
H parked his Jaguar beside a nondescript three-story corner building that resembled a giant wedge at the edge of a block of offices. He was back in uniform after a quick stop at his apartment but hadn’t managed to get in a shave yet. He looked rumpled, and he felt that way, too. The aftereffects of the night’s excesses were still hounding him. He was fuzzy-headed, nauseous, and his tongue was thick in his mouth. It felt like the purple goo he had been drinking that night was trying to make a break for it. He was thankful for the gap in his memory, however, especially after he kept finding odd red sucker-mark hickies on himself while he was showering. He tried not to think about it as he walked into the cluttered little typewriter repair shop that made up the ground floor of the building.
Typewriters from every era and in every state of disrepair filled every shelf, table, and nook of the shop.
“I’m in the market for a useless old broken-down machine,” H said, greeting the old man who was studiously at work on an antique Corona. The proprietor wore a visor and a magnifying monocle. He didn’t appear to be fazed in the slightest.
“You’re not going to get a rise out of me, H.” The old man didn’t even bother to turn his attention away from his work. “It’s the Imperial with the red tab. Do try to keep up.”
H smiled and searched the room until he found the heavy, antique typewriter. He punched the H key, and the machine made a loud clack. A slim black door near the back of the shop, labeled STAFF ONLY, swung open. “Thanks, Charlie,” H said as he walked through the door.
Charlie continued with his repairs.
The door clicked shut behind H.
* * *
The main floor of MiB London was its usual, bustling dance of chaos and order. Em and her cube-buddy, Guy, were on their break, waiting in the queue at the tea trolley, which was parked today near the wall of framed photographs commemorating great moments in MiB history. Guy nodded to one prominent black-and-white photo of a group of aliens, all dressed in Earth clothes of the late-1800s era. The alien arrivals all carried bags and trunks and stood proudly, posing for the picture in front of a large room with three great arches, each labeled with a roman numeral.
“If you look closely,” Guy said, “you can see my great-mum and dad.” Em leaned in closer and saw a young alien couple that bore a strong resemblance to Guy. “The old portal depot, site of the first great alien migration. I actually still have that old suitcase.”
Em had stopped listening. A handsome blonde agent had just entered the main floor. He strode confidently across the room. Everyone seemed to know him and paused to greet him. He handled the attention with charm and gravitas. Clearly, he was used to this kind of greeting. His every chiseled feature, his deep blue eyes, and his confident smile were on display as he seemed to Em to be moving in slow motion. Then she realized that he really was moving in slow motion, and everyone else behind him and around him continued to move at a normal pace.
“What’s up with that guy?” Em asked. Guy snapped his head around to one of their coworkers, an alien woman named Nerlene. Nerlene’s eyes were focused on the slow-moving agent, her hand against her big, pulsating, exposed brain, which to a casual observer looked a lot like a purple beehive hairdo.
“Nerlene,” Guy chided, “let him go.”
“Sorry,” Nerlene said. “He’s just so… yummy!” She closed her eyes and removed her hand from the side of her brain. The agent slipped back into normal time, just as he passed Em, Guy, and Nerlene.
“Hey, Nerlene,” the agent said, smiling his perfect smile, as he passed. Nerlene wordlessly mouthed “Hi” to his back as he headed toward the property room.
“Who is he?” Em asked.
“H?” Guy said. “Only the best agent in the building. He saved the world once, with nothing but his wits and his Series-7 De-Atomizer.”
“Saved the world? From what?” Em asked.
“The Hive.” Guy seemed a little uncomfortable even saying the name, as if it might summon the fearsome species.
Em watched H ascending in one of the elevators. An idea was already taking shape in her mind as her eyes followed H inside the promised land of High T’s office. She looked back to Guy. “Can you cover my calls for a sec?”
Guy’s whole face beamed like a sunrise.
“Are you kidding me? I’d love to! I love the phone!”
Em smiled and began to run off.
“Wait!” called Guy. “Where are you going?”
“To do some homework,” she said, disappearing into the crowd.
* * *
On the holographic display in High T’s office was an unpleasantly graphic scene. The 3-D display showed the body of the dead waiter in the alley in Marrakech. A half-dozen senior MiB agents had gathered in High T’s office, clustered around the data display he had pulled up for them to review.
“…a terrible incident in Marrakech,” High T was saying. “The North Africa office is investigating.” H strode into the office, and High T didn’t miss a beat. “And in other business, H has decided to grace us with his presence after all.” A murmur of chuckles greeted H from his fellow agents, except for Senior Agent Cee, a serious-faced, dark-haired martinet of a man, whose accusing gaze followed H as he quickly availed himself of some coffee to ward off his hangover. Cee was a senior agent, like H, and fancied himself an assistant to High T. He made no pretenses about wanting High T’s job when the station chief finally retired.
“Sir,” H said, sipping the coffee as eagerly as he had gulped down the antidote to the viper’s venom. “Apologies. I was working late.”
“That’s funny,” Cee said, the contempt dripping in his voice, “so was I. Cleaning up your mess.”
H took another sip of his coffee. “It got a lot messier this morning, believe me.”
Cee wasn’t ready to let it go, not yet. “A totally unsanctioned op requiring two containment units—” he glared at H “—a full neuralyzer squad, and we still haven’t found the snake.”
“Found the dead Cerulian mob boss, though, didn’t you?” H met Cee’s eyes. “A huge success, I agree. You’re welcome.”
“And the names of his suppliers?” Cee ask
ed. “Anything we can use?”
H paused for the span of a breath and then regrouped.
“I prefer to look at this on a macro level.” He stepped toward Cee. “You always get bogged down in the details.”
Cee snorted. “So, no.”
“Did win about twelve hundred quid, though.” H glanced over at High T. “Straight to the ace.” Another murmur of chuckles drifted about the room.
High T struggled to hide the thin smile that came to his lips. “Which you will, of course, log into evidence.”
“Literally just came from logging it,” H said.
Cee’s expression of despair was lost on both of them. They shared a bond he could never break through. Nothing could.
“One last item.” High T addressed the crowd of agents. He tapped a console on his desk, and the holographic display reappeared. This time, the image of a lumpy, tentacular alien hovered in the center of the office. “A member of the Jababian royal family has a layover on his way to Centaurus-A. Vungus the Ugly. Inherited the title. Believe it or not, Vungus here is the looker of the brood.” Classified data marked with the MiB seal streamed down like a waterfall on either side of the looming file photo as High T continued. “Jababian society doesn’t allow for certain… indiscretions,” he said. “In short: he wants to be shown a good time.
“We could say no, but Jababian mining vessels would ground us into galactic dust.”
Cee shook his head in disgust. “We used to protect Earth from the scum of the universe. Now, we protect the scum.” He looked at H. “Sounds like your cup of tea, H.”
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