The VMR Theory (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  As they drove away I asked her, “Is this wise?”

  “Would you rather chance the cabs?” She tucked her arm in mine. “Come on.”

  The Marine guards at the gate saluted and passed us through the pressure doors to a reception room decorated in a charming mixture of middle Versailles and early motel. The second secretary, a portly man with a black toothbrush mustache and the turtle-in-shell look you associate with career diplomats, was waiting for us. Rising from behind his desk, he greeted us without any evident signs of warmth. “I am Second Secretary Mushtaq Rizvi. I bid you welcome to Klo’klotixa.” He glanced at his watch. “I have asked the third military attache to be present for this discussion.”

  He gave us wristband Sklo’kotax-English dictionaries so we would know useful phrases in the local language, like “Where is the rest room?” and “Would you please stop torturing me?” and a moment later the third attache walked in.

  Catarina’s eyes lit up. “Why, it’s Mailboat Bobby Stemm. So this is where Lydia parked you. How nice to see you!” she said with absolutely transparent insincerity.

  Bobby Stemm hunched his shoulders, looking slightly less than pleased to see us again.

  Bobby had reached Schuyler’s World on a mailship a few days before Prince Genghis’s invading Rodent hordes showed up. On arrival he tried to order us to surrender to Genghis’s less than tender mercy on the theory that giving up would embarrass the navy less than getting ourselves blown away. Although Bobby’s golden profile belongs on a recruiting poster, it was not his finest hour. He ended up wearing the proverbial egg-yolk mascara after we whipped Genghis. The navy being somewhat sensitive about its image, after Bobby was depicted as cowering under a couch in the movie loosely based on our exploits, his career took a sharp nosedive.

  He said, with obvious trepidation, “With the second military attache indisposed, Secretary Rizvi asked me to be present.”

  “Indisposed. Irate husband?” Catarina inquired sweetly.

  Bobby unbent slightly. “Well, yes. Fortunately, a terrible shot.”

  “It’s nice to see that attache duty hasn’t changed.”

  Bobby reached over and shook my hand gingerly. “Good to see you again, MacKay. I understand you’re a vampire, too. How does one catch McLendon’s Syndrome?”

  I gave him a toothy grin. “Shaking hands works for me.”

  Bobby yanked his hand back, and Catarina leaned over the desk. “Bobby, if we’re going to be working together, I should mention that I had them backdate my promotion to lieutenant commander to be absolutely certain that I would be senior to you. Got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Stemm nodded his head up and down like a puppet.

  “Lieutenant Commander Stemm has informed me that you are here at the request of Navy Intelligence,” Rizvi said sternly. “I must insist on being kept apprised of your activities. Negotiations between the Foreign Office and the Klo’klotixa government are at a delicate stage, and Ambassador Meisenhelder has instructed me to avoid anything which might upset them.”

  Catarina smiled crookedly. “Of course.”

  Rizvi relaxed visibly. “Lieutenant Commander Stemm has also informed me that the two of you have McLendon’s Syndrome. Ah—”

  “Yes, we’re vamps,” Catarina said cheerfully, tapping her sunglasses. “But there’s absolutely nothing to worry about unless someone gets us upset and unsettles our endocrine balances.”

  Under certain circumstances, meaning when our endocrine balances get mucked up, vampires can sometimes perform incredible feats of hysterical strength. Catarina proceeded to tell them how on Schuyler’s World I came out of a coma to beat an assassin half to death with a pillow, bend her pistol in half, and tear a hospital apart looking for chocolate chip cookies.

  “We will try to ensure that you are properly taken care of.” Rizvi wiped his forehead. “The ambassador is, however, concerned about the level of interest the Klo’klotixa government is taking in the so-called ‘Vampire Master Race Theory.’ “

  “I trust the ambassador has taken pains to assure them that there is no truth to the theory whatsoever,” Catarina said.

  “Naturally the ambassador did so, in the firmest possible language,” Rizvi said stiffly.

  “That must have impressed the heck out of them,” I commented. A second or two later I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my ankle.

  Rizvi coughed judiciously. “You might also find it interesting that a Ms. Gwen Shurie has accepted an offer of employment from the Klo’klotixa government and is expected to arrive from Earth shortly. Captain MacKay, I understand that you know her.”

  “Not true!” I protested. “Ask anyone! If I knew her would I have married her?” As long as Gwen is twenty or thirty light-years away, she’s one of my favorite people. I’m not quite as fond of her when she’s on the same planet.

  Catarina interrupted. “Ken’s ex-wife is an advertising executive. Why would the Macdonalds hire her?”

  “In opinion polls, Confederation citizens rank this planet’s inhabitants just above reporters, politicians, and child molesters, and the government is interested in sprucing up its public image,” Stemm said. “However, the timing of this is suspicious given their intense interest in the so-called Vampire Master Race Theory.”

  “She’s suing me,” I groaned.

  “Hmram,” Rizvi said, licking his lips. “Ahhhh.”

  “It’s not what you think. She was working for one of the big firms, and after we whipped the Rodent Navy and ended up in the newspapers, she bragged about the connection to her clients.”

  “I can see that her clients might have thought her obtuse for severing the connection prior to your becoming famous,” Rizvi reflected.

  I shook my head. “No, they had better reasons for thinking she’s dippy.”

  Catarina cleared her throat.

  “Oh, yeah. Where was I? Anyway, after the news leaked that I was a vamp, the kimchee hit the fan. She lost a couple of big accounts, her agency fired her, she sued them, they countersued, and then both sides sued me on the legal theory that I intentionally inflicted emotional distress by continuing to be alive.”

  Noticing the puzzled looks on Rizvi’s and Stemm’s faces, Catarina explained, “Gwen’s home of record is in California.”

  California law tends to be a little weird. The California courts recently garnered notoriety for awarding split decisions where both sides in a lawsuit paid damages to each other. It gave new meaning to the phrase “equal protection under the law,” and it worked about the way you’d expect.

  “Anyway,” I said glumly, “I’m trying to stay a jump ahead of her process servers. Between Gwen and the people who are trying to sue me over stuff that happened on Schuyler’s World, I expect I’ll be in court for as long as I live.”

  “Or longer,” Catarina observed.

  Rizvi folded his hands primly. “Well, hopefully you’ll restrain your litigious instincts while you’re here on Alt Bauemhof, Mr. MacKay.”

  I realized that he was making a joke when Mailboat Bobby started chuckling dutifully. After Bobby concluded his spontaneous outburst of hysterical mirth, Rizvi continued, “As part of our standard in-briefing procedures, I must caution you and your crew members to refrain from providing the inhabitants here with any books on the index of prohibited books. We have provided your computer with a complete listing, and you can simply key in titles to find out whether they are prohibited.”

  “What kind of books are on the index?” I asked.

  Rizvi shifted his bulk uncomfortably. “Mainly works of a religious, philosophical, political, or, ahem, fictional nature.”

  I scratched my head. “Does this mean no romance novels?”

  Rizvi gave me a forbidding stare. “Mr. MacKay, the restrictions on destabilizing literature were originally instituted to prevent the mores of a primitive and pastoral people from being contaminated and overwhelmed by Confederation culture. Over the last half century, teams of psychologists brought in to study t
he situation have repeatedly advocated continuing this ban, due to the extreme literalism that imbues Klo’klotixag society and the violent competitiveness the Klo’klotixag manifest toward mankind.”

  I shuddered at the vision of Macdonalds competing with humans to write trashier romance novels.

  “Moreover, it would be highly destabilizing to Con-federation-Klo’klotixag relations for the Confederation government to have to, er, admit to the practice at this late date.”

  “Ah, right.” Having experienced the Bucky Beaver phenomenon first-hand on IPlixxi*, it was hard for me to disagree, although I suspect that most teams of psychologists would like to prohibit humans from reading works of a political, religious, philosophical, or fictional nature. “To ask a dumb question, why are the Macdonalds so competitive with humanity?”

  Rizvi gazed up at the ceiling. “Please, Mr. MacKay. You really should refer to the natives here as the Klo’klotixag after the principal extended clan grouping.”

  “Sure thing.” I looked at Catarina.

  “Would you two like to answer his question or should I?” Catarina asked in a sugary voice.

  Stemm and Rizvi looked at each other and hesitated. Then Stemm said, “Well, the diplomatic service favors the so-called Freudian Theory.”

  “Does that mean they want to marry their mothers, or does that mean they resent the gratuitous uplifting the Contact boys gave them?” I queried.

  “Although there is a certain animus toward the Contact/ Survey Corps, the Freudian Theory postulates a resentment based on certain physical disparities,” Stemm discoursed. “It’s, ah, somewhat personal, if you comprehend my meaning.”

  Obviously I didn’t, so Catarina elaborated. “The Macdonalds are very humanlike in most respects.”

  I nodded.

  “However, they’re not humanlike in all respects. According to anthropologists, male Macdonalds muster double-headed penises about so big.” She held up her ring finger and flexed it. “To add insult to injury, I understand they tend to fire their cannons in about ten seconds fiat.”

  A light dawned. “You’re telling me that given full disclosure and complete freedom of choice, half the female population would emigrate,” I said, dimly grasping the essential fact that the so-and-so’s had little so-and-so’s. “Precisely,” Catarina said.

  Rizvi looked discomfited, but he added one stem warning. “Mr. MacKay, although the Klo’klotixag have adopted some Confederation customs, understand that this is merely a veneer over their essentially alien nature. They have embraced some of mankind’s most despicable vices without acquiring even the thinnest patina of Terran civilization.”

  “Like Los Angeles, huh?”

  Rizvi blinked. “I shall look forward to reading your reports.” He consulted his watch. “Ambassador Meisenhelder sets certain hours in which he prefers not to be disturbed for routine business. In a minute or two we can get you in to meet him.”

  Before I could find out which soap operas he watched, Catarina asked pointedly, “How does the ambassador feel about the Klo’klotixag military buildup?”

  Rizvi and Bobby Stemm exchanged looks. “Ah, Ambassador Meisenhelder believes strongly that the current militant phase is due in no small measure to the psychic insecurity these people have been subjected to in being exposed to Confederation civilization,” Stemm said without enthusiasm.

  “To counter this,” Rizvi added, “the ambassador is passionately committed to making even the lowliest Klo’klotixfig citizen feel that he or she is the ambassador’s equal.”

  I had no doubt the ambassador could succeed. Before I could mention this, I feit another stabbing pain in my ankle. I decided to look impressed instead.

  “Shall we go in now?” Rizvi said, apparently disinclined to continue the conversation.

  Meisenhelder turned out to be a pleasant man with long hair to comb over his bald spot and a weak handshake to go with his weak chin. All in all, he seemed like a nice, sincere kind of bureaucrat, sort of a poor man’s Heinrich Himmler.

  He tapped his nose. “MacKay? MacKay? Now where have I heard that name before? Ah! Weren’t you the author of that book Coming Out of the Coffin ?”

  Catarina shook her head and smiled sweetly. “Ghostwritten.”

  The civil service has gone downhill since the courts ruled that the government can’t discriminate against the mentally challenged in hiring and promotions, thus allowing nitwits who can’t change a lightbulb the opportunity to climb the career ladder. Unfortunately, I quickly gathered that the Foreign Office makes sure its lightbulbs get changed by promoting its nitwits into policy-making positions. After the ambassador unburdened himself of a few pointless anecdotes, Rizvi cleared his throat. “Miss Lindquist, Mr. MacKay, Lieutenant Commander Stemm can show you to your rooms now.”

  “That’s all right, we can find them.” Catarina rose to her feet. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ambassador.”

  When we got out into the hall, I said to her quietly, “I notice you never mentioned Dr. Blok.”

  “Dear me.” Catarina tossed her head. “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “I also notice you promised Rizvi that you’d report our every move.”

  “I intend to give him a full report about two weeks after we leave orbit.”

  I stopped beside a room. “Two thirteen. This looks like one of ours.”

  The lock responded to her voice print, and she pushed the door open. “If we hurry, we can still catch the reception we’ve been invited to.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a couple of cartons of Leopard Milk protein supplement and some celery. “We’re not going to have time to eat, but I brought some things to tide us over.”

  I stared at my celery with distaste. “You could have brought food.”

  “Not to worry.”

  A moment later a member of the kitchen staff appeared, wheeling a cartload of chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven, with the compliments of Secretary Rizvi, who had been more worried by some of the things we had said than he let on.

  I bit into one. “I take back what I said. You’re a genius. Who are we receptioning with anyway?”

  “The Klo’klotixa-Terra Friendship Society.”

  “The Secret Police, huh.”

  “Most likely the Special Secret Police, which means lousy hors d’oeuvres. Here, go ahead and get dressed.” She brushed the crumbs from her hands and pulled a parcel out of her bag.

  “What’s this?” I peered inside. “Oh, no.”

  “When I struck the deal with Lydia to get you out of jail, she was adamant that you had to dress the part.”

  “But I hate black! And I don’t know how to wear a cape,” I said disgustedly, pawing through the stuff.

  “She gave you a white shirt and tie to go with it.” Catarina held up a frilly white thing.

  “Great. That means I’ll look like a penguin.”

  “Cheer up. I talked her out of rubber fangs.” She handed me a small bottle from her bag. “Here, you can even splash on some of the cologne your aunt Alicia gave you for your high school graduation.”

  “I thought I threw this away. Aunt Alicia’s cologne reminds me of embalming fluid.”

  “You did and it does. At least you won’t have to pretend to turn yourself into a bat.”

  “That’s good. The laws governing conservation of mass and energy being what they are, anybody who thinks that I can turn myself into a bat needs to lighten up on the incense.” A horrible thought struck me. “What do I have to pretend to turn myself into?”

  “A cat.” She rummaged through her purse and handed me a ring.

  “What’s this, a star ranger secret decoder ring?”

  “It’s a miniature hologram projector. Apparently the Macdonalds have heard some of the stories about the cat hologram that Cheeves used to take over Genghis’s flagship, and they’re dead sure that it was one of us.”

  “If Lydia wanted magic tricks, she should have hired my ex-wife’s accountant.”

>   While I reluctantly climbed into my costume, Catarina switched to a black gown and silver jewelry, including her favorite piece, an enameled butterfly pin. Pausing to inspect my image in the mirror, I was forced to admit that the cape looked sharp.

  Catarina whistled. “Not bad. There’s hope for you yet.”

  “You’re going to go to hell for that.”

  She shrugged. “Hope springs infernal.”

  I gave up. We marched out together dressed for the twentieth remake of Bride of Dracula. The Marine in the lobby almost dropped his rifle.

  Outside the embassy it was just getting dark, which obviated our usual problems with sunburn. The Macdonalds have adopted most of the truly repellent aspects of Confederation civilization, including newspapers. I found a newsstand and was checking to see if anyone else had spotted Elvis’s ghost shacking up with the shade of Dolly Parton when our two cops pulled up and did the Macdonald equivalent of a double take.

  Catarina handed the driver the address for the reception, and after they showed us pictures of their kids, we burned synthetic rubber.

  As we moved out of the slum district I spotted a pair of the golden arches which are the Confederation’s major contribution to interstellar architecture. Public buildings and mud-brick hovels gave way to large and sturdy edifices built from stone and mortar, with narrow windows on the upper stories and picturesque little artificial moats.

  “Trusting sorts, aren’t they?” I commented. “Burglars here must use scaling ladders.”

  “Homeowner’s insurance must be dirt cheap.” Catarina rested her chin against the window. “I’d swear we just passed Rapunzel’s hair.”

  “Please excuse,” one of our cops interrupted, “we are about to arrived.”

  Catarina took the hint. “Ken, it’s a nice night. I think we can walk from here.” We spread some banknotes on the seat and got out so the cops could tail us the rest of the way.

  The mansion the Friendship Society was using appeared indistinguishable from the others—apart from a few small touches to make humans feel at home, like the cement deer and plastic flamingos on the lawn and a phony satellite dish decked out in fake ivy. High up on the wall somebody had spray-painted the inscription SURRENDER DOROTHY.