Men in Black International

by R. S. Belcher

  “See the core,” she almost whispered, “how it keeps emitting convective energy across the interior of the photosphere?”

  H nodded quickly and tried to look like he understood what she was talking about. “Yeah, totally. The photosphere.”

  “Those are thermonuclear explosions.”

  “Hold on now—those are what?”

  She tore her eyes away to look at H, as the magnitude of what she held in her hands unfolded to her. “I think we’re looking at a super-compressed star. By its color temperature, I’d say a blue giant.”

  “Stellar super-compression isn’t possible,” Pawny chimed in. “It’s a myth. Like alchemy, or a hangover cure.”

  The device had a series of markings on its side. The gauge started at .001 and ran all the way to a maximum setting of 10,000. H saw the eager look dancing behind the rookie agent’s eyes; it was infectious.

  “Why don’t we find out what’s possible and what isn’t?” he said.

  “You want to try a weaponized star just for fun?” Em nodded toward the seething core of the alien machine.

  “And science. Fun and science.”

  Em’s usually serious expression was now like that of a kid on Christmas morning.

  “No better place for it.” She set the device carefully on the ground. There were a series of field emitters on one side that Em suspected acted as the “mouth,” or “barrel,” for aiming the contraption. She pointed them out toward the endless dunes of the deep desert. “They don’t call this place the Empty Quarter for nothing.”

  H leaned in. He had to admit, he was as keen as she was to see what this thing could actually do. For the first time, it really felt like they were in this thing together.

  “Just at point zero zero one.” Em sounded a little cautious despite her eagerness. She set the switch to the lowest setting. The whole device purred with seemingly endless energy. Em flipped the activator switch and… nothing seemed to happen. Everything remained quiet and normal. Both H and Em stopped holding their breath.

  “Maybe try one notch higher?” H suggested.

  Then the landscape in front of the device’s mouth exploded in a howling vortex of wind and sand. H, Em, and even Pawny were knocked backward by the force of the sudden eruption. Through the stinging haze of dust and grit, H saw massive boulders sucked toward the device, only to be crushed to gravel and swallowed by the whirring machine. The storm covered everything in blinding, choking dust; and Em, H, and Pawny lost sight of one another even though they were only a few feet apart.

  Finally, the howling winds quieted as the machine whined itself to silence. The dust settled, and the battered agents and tiny warrior climbed back to their feet.

  They stood at the edge of a vast canyon, miles across. On the far side, the agents could see a very confused goat standing near the edge, its bleating echoing across the divide. It reminded Em of the time she and her parents had visited the Grand Canyon. This canyon, carved in moments by the machine, seemed nearly as large across and as deep as the one in Arizona.

  H and Em stood, covered in desert dust, silent in disbelief. Pawny struggled up to the edge of the canyon, between the two agents. He looked back at the alien device, behind them.

  “That was the low setting?” His voice echoed across the gulf.

  22

  Cee stormed into High T’s office, his face pink with anger.

  “They got away,” he said coldly.

  High T kept working at the stacks of reports on his desk. Finally, he paused and met Cee’s glare.

  “I believe the technical term is ‘you lost them.’” His voice was calm.

  Cee approached, placing his balled fists on the edge of High T’s desk.

  “They had help.” Cee looked squarely at his boss.

  High T didn’t bat an eye at the veiled accusation.

  “I know H,” he said. “Whatever he’s doing, there’s a reason.”

  “Still protecting him.” Cee shook his head. “What is it going to take?”

  “I am protecting this institution.” High T’s voice hadn’t lost any of the calm, but even so, there was suddenly an air of menace hanging in it, like the edge of a sharp knife.

  “From whom?” Cee asked. “From me? Are you questioning my loyalty?”

  “At the very least, your judgment.”

  Cee seethed but held his tongue.

  “Is there anything else, Agent Cee?” High T asked.

  Cee said nothing, a near-murderous glare in his eyes.

  “No? Good.” High T turned back to his paperwork. “Then you can kindly piss off.”

  * * *

  The sun hung low, close to the dunes of the desert. The clear blue sky had deepened to indigo, bleeding crimson along the horizon. H, carrying the alien black-hole weapon, now once again tucked away in the puzzle box, approached the small camp fire they had made near the wrecked hover-bike. Pawny and Em sat by the fire, watching the light fade. H opened one of the metal “saddlebag” containers near the back of the bike.

  “Vungus knew how powerful this thing is,” H said, slipping the puzzle box into the metal container, “that it could destroy entire worlds.” He closed the compartment. “But he gave it to you. Someone he’d never met.” H sat down beside Em at the fire, leaning back against the busted bike. “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he trusted me?” Em dragged a stick through the sand by her feet, not meeting H’s eyes.

  “I sang at Vungus’s mother’s funeral,” H said. “I’m pretty sure he trusted me.”

  Em sighed and tossed the stick into the fire. She felt more than a little frustrated. “Okay, if you really want to know, he said you’d changed.”

  H shook his head, looking into the fire. “You know—” he sounded just as irritated as Em “—I’m actually getting pretty sick of everyone giving me this ‘I’ve changed’ crap.”

  “Are you saying you’ve always been obstinate, arrogant, and reckless?” Em asked.

  H’s voice started to rise. “Look, my job is protecting the Earth, and as long as I’m doing that, the rules are, there are no rules.”

  “Well,” Pawny said, entering the fray, “that’s a rule.”

  While the three argued, none of them noticed that the aluminum water bottle, partly buried in the sand near the hover-bike, was silently unscrewing itself.

  “Okay,” H raised a hand and tried to get back in control of the conversation. “The rules are there are no rules, apart from the one rule about there being no rules.”

  Bassam the beard pulled himself, dripping wet, from the interior of the water bottle. The drenched beard-alien looked around and was happy to see the agents and the pawn were busy arguing. He pulled a string and fished a small leather sack out of the water bottle as well. Bassam quietly slipped the pack on like he would a backpack, if he had actually possessed a back.

  “So the rules are,” Em cocked her head in mock-confusion, “there is one rule? That negates itself?”

  “Yes.” H sounded as if he had just won the argument.

  There was a metallic click as Bassam closed the saddlebag.

  “Nobody moves!” Bassam commanded, his deep voice unnaturally loud in the quiet desert. H, Em, and Pawny all spun in the direction of the sound. Bassam was pointing a laser pistol at them. He held the puzzle box in another of his furry tendrils.

  Bassam shrugged. “Sorry H. A beard’s gotta eat.”

  “Bassam?” H said. “How did you get here?”

  “I stowed away—” Bassam shook himself off again “—in the water bottle.”

  H made a face. “Euch. Really? We drank from that.”

  “I told you it tasted like soup,” Em said, grimacing.

  “Bassam, mate.” H stepped forward, toward the beard. “Let’s be sensible here. I don’t think you know quite what that thing is capable of.”

  “Oh, no,” Bassam said, backing away. “I definitely do, which is why she’s willing to pay so much for it.”

  H reached
for his gun, but the beard-alien yanked a cord on the harness of the small pack and a jet rocket unfolded from its confines. It launched Bassam into the night sky at a dizzying speed. H aimed his gun at the rapidly disappearing trail of the rocket, but Bassam was already too far away, too high up. H lowered his gun as the rocket’s exhaust was lost in the canopy of stars overhead. Em walked up beside him and fixed him with a stare.

  “Great work, hero,” she said. “How could you not know he was there?”

  “How is this my fault?” H holstered his gun. “Nasr gave me a water bottle. He said he didn’t want me to get dehydrated.” Em continued to glare at him. “You can’t be too careful. It is a very dry heat.”

  “You go to an illegal alien chop-shop and ask a weasel for help. What do you think is going to happen?” Em’s voice was rising this time.

  “Well,” H snapped, just as loudly, “if you’d just told me about that box when Vungus gave it to you, we wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

  “So it’s my fault we lost the most powerful weapon in the galaxy?” Em shouted back.

  “You said it,” H barked.

  Em stepped back and shook her head at H, too angry and hurt to speak. She walked away from the camp fire into the darkness.

  Pawny looked up at H’s expression, then raced after Em.

  Alone, H stood alone by the crackling fire with no idea of what to do to make any of this right. And, for once, with absolutely nothing to say.

  23

  The moon was high and full over the dunes as H and Em, stripped down to their tank top undershirts, worked silently to repair the hover-bike. The day had been blistering. As the desert cooled, it felt wonderful. They knew that in a little while it would become uncomfortably cold; but for now, it was a relief.

  The two hadn’t spoken in a long while. Pawny stood between them while H worked at repairing the hover-bike’s power supply, repulsion array, and engines. Meanwhile, Em worked on repairing the extensive damage to the bike’s onboard computer systems, control panel, and system software. Occasionally, the two agents sneaked furtive glances at each other’s handiwork, both impressed by the other’s aptitude, but unwilling to admit it.

  “Pawny,” H said, his back to the small warrior and to Em, “ask her to pass me that torque wrench.”

  “‘She’ has a name and a title,” Pawny muttered gruffly, “and I would thank you to use it.” Despite his objection, Pawny turned to Em and relayed the message. “My lady, the jackass needs the torque wrench.” Em reached into one of the saddlebag compartments on the back of the bike and fished out the torque wrench. She handed it to H without a word, and resumed her work with her back to him.

  “Pawny,” Em said, “tell him the sooner he restores power to my drive console, the sooner I can figure out how to program it.”

  Pawny turned to H’s back. “My lady says you’re a cloth-brained ass clown whose gullible idiocy has threatened the very existence of the planet.”

  H stopped working and turned to the little warrior. “She didn’t say that. She didn’t say any of that, so—”

  “No.” Em was still working, not even looking around to H. “But he makes a good point.” Pawny smiled. H dropped an oil-spotted rag over him.

  It took H a few more moments to reinitialize the power core, but when he did the bike’s engine hummed to life. Em’s console lit up, streaming with alien symbols.

  “Tell your lady she now has power.”

  “Tell him I said thank you.”

  “Really?” Pawny sounded incredulous. “Do I have to? He’ll mistake your kindness for weakness.”

  H turned away from the engine and wiped his hands with the rag he had dropped on Pawny. “I know where the weapon’s going,” he told Em, “and I know how to get it back.”

  Em looked up from her work. “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Okay,” Pawny asked, “so am I opting out of this now?”

  “Bassam has only one real buyer,” H went on. “He said so himself. Riza Stavros.”

  “Is this the Riza you used to go out with? The intergalactic alien arms dealer?”

  “You dated Riza Stavros?” Pawny exclaimed, turning to H. “The Merchant of Death? Are you insane?”

  H ignored the pawn and focused on Em.

  “I didn’t know she was an arms dealer when we met. I got distracted by her feminine wiles, her intoxicating beauty. We weren’t interested in labels,” H went on, rolling now. “We were interested in our hearts. And if having a big old heart is a crime, then shoot me.”

  Pawny raised his blaster, aiming it at H’s skull, unbeknownst to the agent who was waxing poetic. The tiny warrior, standing on the bike’s seat, looked up eagerly to Em for permission to fire. Em shook her head. Pawny frowned and reluctantly lowered his gun.

  “You’re telling me you’ve never just abandoned logic for passion?” H asked.

  “Not once,” Em said calmly as she continued to type lines of code into the bike’s operating system. “Physical attraction is just serotonin and neuropeptides. Chemical reactions in the brain. You can’t trust them.”

  H paused in his labors and held his arms out to encompass the vast mosaic of stars above them. “The whole universe is a chemical reaction,” he declared. “It’s still real.”

  Em was silent.

  Pawny sat back on the bike’s seat, taking in the profundity of H’s words. “That’s… actually kind of deep.”

  H made a final adjustment to the power flow. “Okay, that should do it. Power her up.”

  Em tapped in some commands on the console keypad and the hover-bike’s engines grumbled to life. The bike jerkily raised itself off the desert floor, its suspension field generators working again. The massive thruster-engine exhausts glowed with power as the sand on the ground swirled under the hover-bike. Em and H let out a cheer. The two agents smiled at each other. It felt like the hard night and the harsh words were all forgotten in the smooth thrum of the bike’s engines.

  “I know Riza,” H said to Em. “She may be a merchant of death, but she does have one weakness.” He looked down to Pawny. The small soldier glared back at H. “You ready to be a hero, little guy?” Pawny opened his mouth to give H a vulgar reply, but the agent kept going, “Great! Because we’re going to Naples!”

  As if on cue, the hover-bike’s engines began to seize and choke. The power core failed and the bike dropped. Pawny grunted as he tumbled off the bike seat and thudded to the sand below.

  H and Em regarded the dead bike sadly. Em gave H an “atta boy” slug on the shoulder. “Maybe you can fix it,” she said with smile, “with your big old heart.”

  Despite her words, Em went back to work on the interface, checking for shorts or bad connections to the console. H picked up the wrench and started again on the power system. He gave his partner a faint smile as he picked up the water bottle.

  It was a long way to Naples and Riza, over three thousand kilometers, H mused, figuring their odds. Even if they got the hover-bike’s hyperdrive fixed up again, every MiB station in the world would be on the lookout for them. But as he watched Em work, he suddenly felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time—hope. Real hope.

  He took an absent-minded sip from the water bottle, and immediately spat the soup–Bassam-flavored water out, disgusted.

  24

  NAPLES, ITALY

  The ancient port city of Naples was dappled with color. Brightly painted buildings of yellow, red, blue, and green were clustered around the bay. The waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea were like blue glass, sparkling in the sunlight. In the distance the slumbering volcano, Mount Vesuvius, filled the eastern skyline, as beautiful and majestic as it was deadly. In the old town by the harbor, a long line of Vespas, looking like they belonged in the film Roman Holiday, were parked near the cluster of cafes and bistros that filled the narrow streets.

  With a rumble and a growl, the alien hover-bike appeared in the street, Em, H, and Pawny aboard. They clambered off the big muscle bike, and
after a few hurried minutes of arguing and gathering packing boxes from outside storefronts, they constructed a makeshift cardboard camouflage for the vehicle. Despite their efforts it was barely concealed, incongruous in the long line of Vespa scooters; but nonetheless, the three weary passengers left it there, heading for the rows of stores along the winding street.

  Em, still in her MiB uniform, waited with Pawny outside a men’s clothing boutique. H had said he needed new clothing for their next task.

  “It’d be a real shame if something were to happen to H out there,” Pawny reflected.

  “H is a pro.” Em glanced back toward the store and then at her watch. MiB was looking for them and every second they delayed made the likelihood they would be spotted increase. “He’ll be fine.”

  “I’m just saying, if the worst did happen. We are in Italy. We could grab a little Prosecco, a little pasta…”

  Pawny stopped as H came out of the clothing store. He was wearing a loose white linen button-down shirt, untucked, and a pair of pale pink pants. He’d completed the look with dock shoes and no socks.

  Em made a face. “Wow, that’s… bold.”

  “Thank you.” H headed in the direction of the dock and they walked across the street together. “Good with the plan?”

  “Great with the plan.” Em tried to sound her most enthusiastic, though she had some doubts about H’s strategy. “You?”

  “Seeing my murderous, arms-dealing ex? Sure.” H paused at a port-side vendor’s booth. He paid the man in cash for a jar of fresh sardines, and then headed down the dock, unsealing the jar as he went. He dumped the fish into a trash can but kept the jar. “We will need one of these—” he scanned the port and nodded to Em “—and one of those.” H was looking at a beautiful wooden speedboat that was moored to the pier and was bobbing gently in the crystal-blue water.

  “For the record,” Pawny interjected, “I am not a fan of this so-called plan.”

  * * *

  Riza Stavros’s office was a large, luxurious room, the epitome of wealth and taste. The decor was traditional Mediterranean style, with a few nods to modern aesthetic. Rustic hardwood floors and stairs were set off by older columns and walls of rough-hewn stone and block—“souvenirs,” or more accurately, loot, from the ancient ruins of the Neapolitan countryside.