“I know Vungus,” H replied. “Not really a tea guy. Vodka, tequila, cough syrup. You know, this one time in Bangkok, we woke up handcuffed to a horse—”
“H, shut up,” High T said.
“Sorry, sir.”
“You’re going,” High T went on. “In fact, he specifically asked for you.”
“Always happy to show Vungus a good time,” H said.
“Not too good,” High T added.
“I’ll have him home and tucked in by midnight.”
10
The MiB virtual-reality archives were sited in a sparsely furnished room, which consisted of rows of curved, white-and-black VR chairs, suspended off the floor by wires. Em climbed into one of the hanging chairs and slipped a full-immersion VR headset on. One of the many things she had learned about the Men in Black was that they supplemented their operating budget by carefully patenting and introducing alien technology to Earth. Everything from Swedish Fish to 8-track tape players, Hot Pockets to ShamWow cloths were all originally not of this Earth.
Em had recently discovered that an addition to that list was virtual reality. VR was actually the psychic borderland between the species of her own universe and the Ithxxix, a species that only existed in human reality as a thought, an idea. VR had been created to provide an interface, so the tangible species could interact with the Ithxxix and thus they could learn from one another. It made Em a little sad that her own species had turned such fantastic technology, a technology that bridged the divide between the imaginary and the real, into a way to play better video games.
She spoke out loud, addressing the archive computer. “Search Criteria: Agent H.”
A virtual archives room appeared before Em’s eyes, endless file cabinets in endless rows. The incident file Em was looking for flew down one of the infinite hallways. The folder hovered before her eyes, and Virtual Em reached out and opened it. Images and text flashed before her eyes from the file: she saw the Eiffel Tower; the old, abandoned portal depot that Guy had shown her in the photograph; and a note: “Belligerent Species: HIVE.”
“Species review,” Em said. “The Hive.” Her field of vision was filled by a single, squirming, living tendril, a Hive strand.
“Perhaps the greatest threat to life in the galaxy as we know it,” Agent O’s voice said in her ears. The first tendril was joined by a second, and they rapidly entwined. “Trillions of individual carbon-based strands, all connected by a single Hive consciousness.” Another tendril lashed itself to the two, then quickly a fourth, and then, with blinding speed, Em saw a mass of countless swarming, writhing tentacles, filling her field of vision like a horrific living curtain—creating a terrible Hive monster, like the one in Paris.
Em’s point of view shifted through the Hive mass to a pastoral, blue-green alien world, a blissful Eden. Em followed the point of view down to a forest clearing. The lime sky was lit by two distant pinpoints of twin suns. Water burbled from a small fall, and nearby a creature that looked a bit like a terrestrial buffalo grazed peacefully beside a stream that meandered away from the fall. The buffalo started, raising its head, sensing danger. It was suddenly lifted violently into the air by the tendrils of a Hive monster.
“The Hive are a hyper-aggressive, invasive species,” Agent O’s voice continued as smaller Hive tendrils slid into the buffalo’s ears and nose, as the beast groaned and struggled, “taking over their victims from within. Subsuming them.”
Em grimaced as the view zoomed out to allow her to see other creatures and even fauna being enveloped and devoured by other Hive monsters. A caption floated in the corner of her perception that said, “Reenactment of Hive Invasion of Pladimer Eight.” Her view quickly zoomed out, further and further away from the planet’s rapidly covered surface, now a slithering mass, all life choked out.
“And so they spread,” the narrator said. “As much a plague as an army.”
Em was horrified by the view of the planet that only moments before had been an oasis of life in the cold depths of space. It was now a brown, desiccated husk.
“They will not stop until all biodiversity in the galaxy is eradicated. Until the many become one.”
The scene shifted, and Em now had a front row seat for the battle of the Eiffel Tower. High T and Agent H, side by side, blasting slithering Hive tentacles in the old, now abandoned, portal depot. “We would have succumbed to the Hive threat ourselves, on the night of June 6, 2015,” Agent O’s narration said in her ear, a hint of pride in her voice, “had it not been for the heroic actions of Agents T and H. Armed with only their wits and their Series-7 De-Atomizers…”
As the narration went on, Em found herself face to face with an image of Agent H in his prime. There he stood, the hero who had defeated the terrible Hive.
* * *
H was snoring deeply, face down on his desk, when Em found him. She wondered exactly how one woke up a hero, especially when the hero in question had a trickle of drool running down from the corner of his mouth.
“Um… hello? Hello?” Nothing except slightly louder snoring. Em took her officially sanctioned MiB tablet and dropped it on H’s desk loudly. H snorted and bolted upright.
“Yep, yep.” He wiped away the drool. “Totally awake!” He noticed Em standing there. “Just catching up on my daily meditation.”
“I keep meaning to try it,” Em said. “I read that it dramatically improves mitochondrial energy production.”
“Yup, totally.” H nodded vigorously. “My mitochondrial energy is through the roof.” Em was pretty sure he had no idea what she was talking about. “And it builds up an appetite. Time for lunch. Hungry?”
“It’s 9:30,” Em said.
H’s face beamed.
“Perfect. Tuesday is taco day.” H stood and shouted across the bustling sea of agent desks. “Dave, Taco Tuesday! Let’s get a lunch order going!”
“It’s Wednesday,” Em told him.
“Dave, scrap that!” H shouted out to a very confused Dave. H looked back to Em. “Who are you again?”
“Agent Em. I saw you were on the Vungus meet tonight and wanted to offer my assistance.”
“Ah,” H said. “You were in the briefing?”
“I asked around.” Em picked up her tablet. “I’m somewhat of a Jababian wonk. I’ve compiled a dossier…”
“I love a good dossier,” H said, “but I kind of work alone. Everyone knows that. Ask anybody. Ask Dave.” H pushed a button on his phone’s intercom and leaned toward it. “Hey, Dave—”
Em put her hand out to stop him. “I’ll take your word for it.”
H let go of the intercom button and looked at her hand on his arm for a second. Em let go and handed H the tablet with her report pulled up. H skimmed the screen, nodding.
“Did you know,” she went on, “that Jababians are the wealthiest aliens in their solar system? Per capita.”
H chuckled, still reading. “And yet there’s not a tab in the universe they won’t try and dodge.”
“They are also clair-cognizant empaths,” Em added. “Which means they can basically read your mind.”
“And your cards.” H set aside the half-read dossier.
“Yes,” Em said, “but they have a tell.” H sat up a little in his chair at this. “The subdermal spots on the underside of their arms change color, so you know when they’re cheating.” It was clear to Em that H hadn’t known this. She figured that scored her a few points with the veteran agent. Instead, H handed her tablet back to her.
“Vungus and I once stayed up three days straight, playing poker and drinking White Russians in a flop house in Ho Chi Minh City,” he said. “You spend that kind of time with somebody, in that humidity, there’s nothing you don’t know. But thank you.”
“Okay,” Em said, “message understood.” She was disappointed and angry. It felt like another door had been slammed in her face, but she stayed cool. “I’ll leave you to your meditation.”
She moved away, but then the anger jabbed her, and she walked back to H�
�s desk and spoke close to his ear. “You know what your tell is?” she asked. “You snore when you’re meditating.” And then she marched off.
H watched the probationary agent walk away. He couldn’t help but smile. She had nerve, she had style, and no doubt with that Jababian-subdermal-spot thing, she was definitely on the ball. “Actually, on second thoughts,” H said to her retreating back, “maybe I could use some backup.”
Her back was still turned to him, so H couldn’t see it, but an excited smile spread across her face.
11
East London was a curious mixture of loud nightspots, bustling commuters, and silent cobbled yards. H’s black Jaguar pulled over and parked on a street made glossy by the lamplight. H and Em climbed out, and H led her down a quiet alley. The only thing in sight was an ancient black cab.
“I was thinking for the op,” Em began, “I’ll take the perimeter and you can make the approach to Vungus.”
“Yeah, sounds good. But here’s the thing.” H turned to address her. “At this particular club, people just want to do their thing. The humans want to look like aliens; the aliens want to look like humans. It’s probably best not to broadcast one’s chosen profession. So we may want to loosen up a bit.”
H undid his tie. Em, a little uncertain, followed suit, but clearly he wasn’t satisfied with the result.
“May I?” he asked.
Em nodded, still a little confused. H adjusted her collar so it popped up, and turned back her shirtsleeve cuffs. Finally, he tousled her hair with a stylist’s flourish. She peered at her reflection in the window glass of the parked cab as she unbuttoned her collar button. She hated to admit it, but she looked good—not MiB-sanctioned, but good.
H nodded in approval at his handiwork. “Great. How’m I?”
Em squinted at him.
“It’s a fine line,” she said, “between cocky-casual and the saddest man on Earth.”
H frowned.
Em buttoned up two of his shirt buttons, stepped back, and took him in. H opened the cab door for Em.
“I thought we were there already?” she said.
“We are.” H climbed in and indicated that she should follow him.
The cabbie behind the wheel was chatting rapidly into his phone in a language Em didn’t recognize.
“Step on it, would you, Freddie?” H said.
“You got it, H.” Freddie didn’t miss a beat. The driver stomped the accelerator with his inhuman-looking foot—and Em realized at that moment that the cabbie’s human look only appeared above the waist; below, he wasn’t hiding his alien shape. The entire back seat of the cab began to descend below the street, an elevator plunging them into the darkness below London. Then the silence gave way to a heavy, throbbing bass. As the seat lowered further, the darkness was punctuated by strobe lights, flashing in time to the relentless beat. In the stuttering light, Em looked over to H, who seemed as cool as ever.
“Entrance for special guests,” H explained as their seat stopped and deposited them on a circular dais at one end of a churning, rollicking nightclub. Em’s senses were assaulted by the colors, the fashions, and the outrageousness of the clubbers’ costumes. There were people in nothing but blacklight body paints, others wearing rubber suits with built-in twelve-inch heels, hair made of multi-colored yarn, or plastic tubing, or feathers. A woman walked by in a fin-de-siècle-style evening gown, covered in chips of silvery glass. She wore round, mirrored sunglasses and a lace parasol. She had fangs and horns—Em wasn’t sure if they were implants, or if she was an alien. A man in a green, foam “Gumby” suit swung glowing, hypnotic, LED poi sticks on a platform in the center of the dance floor, jumping and swaying to the music. A blue-skinned woman with braided octopus-like head tentacles danced with abandon in a crowd. Another woman sported ram horns, and a gold-skinned club kid with a vaguely conical head and wide, black visor-like eyes threw shapes.
It was all… like nothing Em had ever experienced in her whole life, even with her fascination with alien life. It was one thing to study every esoteric scrap of data she could get on alien life from supposed “crackpot” books and websites, it was another to actually see them doing Jell-O shots. It had never occurred to her that all those years she was studying and searching for MiB, she could have been missing out on all kinds of experiences she might have really enjoyed, like a club full of music and dancing, and aliens. H, of course, seemed as comfortable and accepted here as he was back at MiB command.
“Busy tonight,” H said, surveying the floor like a king looking over his kingdom. “Good-looking crowd.” They moved through the dance floor, and everyone parted for H.
“Hey. H!” a Kelortian wearing a huge sultan’s turban shouted from across the room. The extraterrestrial, who looked like a classic “Grey” alien, was puffing on a high-tech, hovering hookah.
H waved to the alien. “Yordav! Hey! They let you out! Let’s do lunch—I’ll email.”
H and Em made their way through the crowd to the bar. The bartender, who looked human to Em until he frosted a mug for a beer by simply touching it, slid a tumbler of Glenfiddich scotch, neat, to H as he leaned against the bar. “H, how’s it going?” the icy bartender said, his breath white mist.
“Ah, good,” H said, sipping the scotch. He glanced to Em, gesturing to the drink. Em shook her head. H turned back to the bartender, “Same old, same old, saving the world, still thinking of redoing my kitchen, like we discussed. Opening it up into one, big entertaining space, maybe.”
The bartender nodded vigorously. “You will add so much value!”
Em spotted a couple rushing toward them. The woman was pretty and had black hair that fell to her shoulders. She was dressed in a print dress covered in stylized red-lipstick-covered mouths. She appeared to be human to Em. Her partner looked as if he had fallen through a wormhole from the seventies. He wore a club shirt, made of a strange blue and gold metallic fabric that was half unbuttoned, and painfully tight bell-bottom trousers. He was an alien—Em guessed he was probably a Yuliglian due to the brow ridges just above his eyes and along his jaw line. His short hair was disco-permed and he wore a gold chain around his neck, nestled in the hirsute wilderness of his abundant chest hair. The couple were holding hands as they cautiously approached the bar. They saw Em and looked concerned, even frightened. Then they saw H; and both seemed to sag a bit in relief.
H smiled at the arrivals. “Coco, Bjorg.”
“Oh, thank God,” Bjorg said, a little breathless. “We heard MiB was here.”
“We were worried it might be an inspection,” Coco added.
H waved dismissively. “Nah, it’s just me,” he said, ignoring Em completely. “I fancied some nineties classics and an overpriced cocktail. How are the kids?”
“Don’t ask,” Bjorg said, he and Coco both chuckled. “Jasper just turned six, and he won’t stop shedding.”
“Six already?” H shook his head. “Where do the years go?”
“H, why didn’t you call ahead?” Coco asked. Bjorg snapped his fingers as if he were the one who had asked the question and pointed a hairy index finger at H.
“Vungus. Of course,” Bjorg said. He pointed up to the second level at a shadowy VIP section cordoned off with velvet ropes and protected by bodyguards. “He’s in his usual spot upstairs.” Someone called out to H, and the agent excused himself and headed back into the crowd. Em, Coco, and Bjorg followed him as the music thrummed and lights flashed.
Em watched as H made his meandering way toward the spiral staircase and the upper level. He half-walked, half-danced as he went, stopping to accept fist-bumps and high-fives, hugs, and kisses on the cheek. Em heard one of H’s admirers say, “Hey, it’s Mr. Series-7!”
For an illegal, off-the-books alien club, everyone seemed to know H and love him here, even though he was MiB. Em didn’t know how to feel about any of that. Suddenly, she was back in elementary school, being marginalized by the other kids.
“You must be H’s new partner,” Coco shouted i
nto Em’s ear over the music.
Before Em could respond, Bjorg blurted in her other ear, “He’s a legend, but, you know, humble with it. Not at all show-offy, all ‘Look at me, I saved the world!’”
“Did he tell you he saved the world?” Coco asked in Em’s other ear. H was reaching the velvet rope that blocked off the stairs to the upper level.
“I did hear something, yes,” Em replied. They caught up with H and Bjorg unhooked the rope to allow the two agents to ascend the stairs.
“H, if you need anything…” Bjorg said, as H and Em began to climb the stairs.
“Anything at all,” Coco added.
The rest of their words were drowned by cheers as the DJ started a new set.
12
Em and H reached the top of the stairwell and the border of the shadowy VIP section. The club bouncers—both of them Rogians, each with four large, heavily-muscled arms—stood aside for H and lifted the velvet rope to allow the two agents through. A pair of burly Jababian bodyguards blocked H and Em for a tense moment and then let them pass. In the shadowy lounge, a gawky, lumpy figure struggled to rise from a booth, a champagne glass in hand: Vungus the Ugly.
“The Vungus among us!” H bellowed.
The figure stepped into the light. He was a Jababian, an exceptionally hard-to-look-at Jababian. He had blue skin and his features had a turtle-like quality to them. His wide, squat nose was wedged between his slightly bulging eyes. The mop of curly, brown hair on top of his head may have been a toupee, Em suspected. Vungus the Ugly’s clothes barely contained his 300-pound girth—skintight slacks and a gray shirt with a tan sports coat. The clothes were all expensive, but Vungus made them seem cheap. He completed his Eurotrash look with a thick gold chain around his frog-like neck.
“H-Bomb!” Vungus called in a thick accent. Vungus and H rushed to each other, and for a second, Em thought they might hug, but instead, the two engaged in a complex ritual of bro-hand-and-tentacle-shakes and chest bumps. There may have been some flatulence, too, but Em wasn’t sure if that was a biological mishap or language. It all went on seemingly forever. Em checked her watch and sighed.
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