The VMR Theory (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  Harry puffed his chest indignantly. “You don’t understand. My relationship with Muffy is all business.”

  “Harry, I don’t care if it’s all business—whether you’re paying Muffy or Muffy’s paying you, Wyma Jean is still going to take a hacksaw to your genitals.”

  “It’s not like that at all, Ken. Like, Muffy is a revolutionary, and I want to help her.”

  I sighed. “A revolutionary.”

  “Right!”

  “And she wants to overthrow the government.”

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed again. “I liked it better when I thought you were screwing around with her.”

  “Well, that, too, but I want her revolution to succeed. That’s why I need your help.”

  “Stop! Let’s backtrack. I thought you said your relationship with Muffy was all business.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s all business, but it’s not all business,” Harry responded, obviously perplexed by the question. “All right. What is Muffy revolutionary about?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly sure. Her English isn’t so good. But I really want to help.”

  I buried my face in my hands. “All right. Exactly what do you want from me?”

  “I’d like a leave of absence so I can help out, Ken.”

  “Done. The Macdonalds have impounded our ship, so we’re going to have to delay our departure anyway. What else?”

  “Uh, do you remember those blasting charges we keep for light salvage?”

  “As I say, the Macdonalds have our ship, so you’re welcome to take a few if you can figure out how.”

  “Thanks, Ken. You’re a true friend.” He pumped my hand up and down.

  “Have you seen Rosalee?”

  “Oh, she’s around. Do you remember that big highspeed chase through the city yesterday?”

  I buried my face in my hands again. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  There was a furtive tapping at what was left of the window.

  “Oh, I’ve got to run. Muffy’s waiting for me.” Harry climbed through the window and waved. “Thanks, Ken. Thanks.”

  I opened my mouth and took a deep breath and found out that that was an exceedingly stupid thing to do even with a breathing mask on, so I called maintenance to come fix the window. The two guys who arrived came decked out in strings of garlic. Although I made it to the bathroom in time, it was a sobering reminder that there’s still a lot of superstitious prejudice against vamps.

  Catarina wasn’t in her room, so I decided to wait in the embassy’s Blue Parrot Lounge until they finished.

  Because diplomats don’t start drinking seriously until after teatime, the lounge was mostly empty. I found myself a comer booth, ordered up a lemon water, and leafed through a four-year-old magazine whose articles ranged from “32 Ways to a Better Butt” to “My Ten Worst Yeast Infections.”

  I was contemplating the many things seriously wrong with my life when I heard a female voice say, “Excuse me, but you look very familiar. Haven’t we met somewhere?”

  I frowned. Not only does that pickup line rank about fortieth on the all-time list, but it was one of my ex-wife’s favorites. Of course, although the woman in question was now blonde in a hard, attractive way, she was my ex-wife. Out of all the gin joints in all of the towns on this world, she had to walk into mine. “Hi, Gwen.”

  “Oh, Ken! I almost didn’t recognize you, you’ve gotten so pale.” She sat down opposite me. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

  “Won’t you sit down? You’re looking—different.”

  “Isn’t plastic surgery wonderful?” She leaned over, touched her cheek against mine, and made a kissing noise. Then she pulled a tissue out of the satchel she carries as a purse and dabbed at my cheek. “Hold still.” She took my jaw in her hand and tilted it from side to side to appraise her handiwork. “There! All better. I didn’t get a Christmas card from you this year, but I’m sure that was just an oversight.”

  “Ah, right.”

  “Oh, Ken, you’re so cute when you try to lie! But I’m shocked at the way you look! You need to get some sun.”

  “Vamps can’t stand sun.”

  “Oh, that’s right! I’d almost forgotten!” She pouted. “Seriously, Ken MacKay—I mean seriously—did you have to go and make yourself into a vampire?”

  “Ah, nice dress you’re wearing.”

  She laughed. “It’s an original. It’s my color, don’t you think?” She winked. “I did some work for Alex Chris Fashion Designs, and they paid me in kind. I saved three hundred on my taxes.”

  I turned my head slightly so I wouldn’t pick up glare from the sequins. “How’s the advertising business these days?”

  “Just fine, no thanks to you! Turning yourself into a vampire and then getting yourself in the news was a pretty loathsome trick, you have to admit. Why, you can’t imagine the fast talking I had to do with the people at the country club.” She smiled, grasped my hand playfully, and said in an earnest tone of voice, “But let’s let bygones be bygones. How are you doing, Ken? How are you really doing?”

  Over the last few years, I’ve come to realize that Gwen taught me many valuable lessons during the six months we were married. One was to ask questions like, “How is your last boyfriend, and are you a suspect?” While most people think of male-female relationships in terms of gladiators battling it out, I’ve always felt more like a Christian shaking hands with the lion just before they ring the bell.

  “I’ve had Rustam’s Slipper back in commission for about four months now. She’s a good ship,” I said cautiously.

  “I’ve always understood how you felt about ships.” She patted me on the arm. “It’s a shame you can’t bring that kind of feeling into your relationships with people, but I’m not bitter, I’ve come to accept it.”

  “Gwen, time out. One of the things I’ve always admired about you is your ability to lie like a cheap rug and make me feel guilty for catching you at it. Is there something else we could fight about?”

  She laughed. “Oh, you charmer. I don’t know why you feel you have to flatter me every time we meet.”

  “Uh, right.” Advertising executives truly are a different breed. “How is your job here going?”

  Her eyes glistened. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. These people have a major-league image problem. I mean they’re amateurs when it comes to molding public opinion!”

  “But you can fix them up?”

  “Piece of cake.” She waved her hand negligently. “They have no idea here where to put their money to get exposure. Those tight uniforms and those cute little collars the boys wear—a couple of ads in the right magazines, and I could create a tourist industry overnight. And as for wanting to take over the universe, I mean why shouldn’t they aspire to be on top of the heap? As I see it, all they need is a carefully run campaign that appeals to that have-not give-till-it-hurts instinct in people.”

  “I don’t know. Their wanting to enslave humanity sounds like it would be tough to put across in a sixty-second spot.”

  “I think the public will buy into it if I work up the right theme and concept.” She folded her hands. “It’s a professional challenge—there has to be something about them I can play up. Macdonald babies are cute, aren’t they?”

  “I’m not really sure. As I understand it, the cartilage isn’t set when they’re bom, so they come out like little gray slugs.”

  “Well, there’s always the tried and true approach. I’ll just have one of the agencies ship over some models in skimpy bathing suits for the shoot.”

  “Gwen! This isn’t an election where you can put a two-hundred-dollar haircut on some slick hick and get him elected. There’s a difference between selling soap and selling Hitler.”

  “Ken, that’s the difference between an advertising professional and a lay person. You just don’t have vision! Hitler—wasn’t he the Hun with the cute mustache? Or am I thinking of Pancho Villa? Anyway, of course selling a politician is differen
t from selling soap—your market demographics are nowhere near the same.”

  In the course of our many one-sided conversations, I had learned long ago that professional ethics for ad people largely consist of paying bar tabs regularly, so I dropped further discussion on the subject as unprofitable. “How are the people you’re working for treating you?”

  “No complaints. But they ask so many questions! They want to know about everything. It’s such a relief to come back here to the embassy and talk to, well, you know, real people. Can you believe it—they even asked questions about you!”

  “What did they want to know?” I asked in what was intended to be a casual manner.

  “All kinds of things. They were fascinated by what I had to say. It must be this vampire kick you’re on, you poor dear,” she said, in what could have easily been mistaken for a sympathetic tone of voice. “Look at your hair—is it getting thin on top?” The remark, of course, gave her an excuse to run her fingers through it.

  “Uh, no. It’s not.” Catarina appeared at the door, and I waved frantically to get her to come over. “Catarina, do you know Gwen?”

  “We’ve met.” Catarina looked at Gwen like she was a leftover that had been sitting in the refrigerator too long. “I have to warn you, this place is full of vultures—vultures everywhere.”

  “Why, ah, Ken, it was so good to talk to you.” Gwen scrambled to her feet. “We’ll have to get together for a drink soon.”

  As she departed, Catarina took her place. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

  I gestured. “The Macdonalds have been quizzing her about me. My only consolation is that whatever she told them was probably just inaccurate enough to confuse them. Fortunately, you arrived before she got around to nagging me about her lawsuit.”

  Catarina raised one eyebrow. “Dear me, under that cynical shell you’re really a sentimentalist.” Her voice turned professional. “I talked to Bobby about the tape. He tried to say you were imagining things until I found the bug in his office.”

  “You still don’t sound happy.”

  “I’m not. I’ve asked Clyde to shadow him. Bobby is nervous about something. I wish I knew what it was.”

  “It might be Harry. He came by here an hour or so ago. His friend Muffy is a revolutionary of some sort, and he wants to help her out.”

  There was a pregnant silence while Catarina digested this. “Ambassador Meisenhelder is already annoyed because Rosalee got herself elected captain of the local Guild of Free Women and marched them out on strike for higher wages and better working conditions, including arch supports. He’s going to absolutely adore hearing about Harry. I hope you don’t feel any pressing need to burden him with the details.”

  She stopped speaking when she saw Minnie, Mickey, and Bunkie appear. They waved in unison and came our way.

  Minnie appointed herself spokes-Rodent. “Friend Ken, in passing us, Miss Gwen said that you were up and about. We congratulate you on your speedy recovery. As Bucky says, ‘Good health is a boon to friendship.’ “

  “Uh, right. What have you guys been doing?”

  “Miss Bunkie took us to the market and let us purchase a few things with the pocket money Uncle Cheeves gave us. It was very instructive.”

  “That was thoughtful of Bunkie.” I was a little surprised because Bunkie tends to be a bit of a tightwad. “Did you all have fun?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much so,” Mickey assured me.

  “That’s good. Well, I really appreciate your concern.” The three of them nodded solemnly and wandered off. Catarina looked at me and began polishing her sunglasses. “Ken, is it my imagination, or is Bunkie going Rodent on us?”

  “Now that you mention it, they’re all starting to walk the same way. Well, I need to think about turning myself back over to Wipo. Gwen is better than an intercom system In about ten minutes everyone in the building will know I’m up and about.”

  “Wait a day. Build up some strength first. Maybe Blok will get in touch with us on his own,” Catarina said, although I could tell that she didn’t believe it.

  We had a quiet dinner together, and I spent a day resting. After Dr. Ye gave me a quick physical and reluctantly concluded that I was going to live, Catarina sat down on the edge of the bed and laid a small package on the pillow beside me. “Happy birthday a few months early.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” I opened the package and looked inside. “I mean that sincerely. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Plain white briefs. No little hearts or bunnies.” She smiled. “We have the honor of the Confederation to uphold.”

  Hi, We’re from the Secret Police, and We’re Here to Help You

  I got my police escort to give me a lift over to Special Secret Police Headquarters, and the gate guards directed me to Wipo’s office. “Hello, Wipo.” I looked around. “Nice place you have here. Did your brother-in-law decorate?”

  Wipo unfolded his knobby hands. “Actually, I had my minions duplicate tee furnishings in Ambassador Meisen-helder’s office.”

  “You know, I thought it looked familiar.” I glanced at my watch. “Now that we’ve dispensed with pleasantries, why don’t you have Trixie read my mind and I’ll get out of here?”

  Wipo’s eyes glittered. “Despite your feeble attempt at deception, I am sure you are aware t’at Trixie disappeared yesterday. I have already deduced t’at you suborned her prior to your conveniently timed allergic reaction.”

  I winced. My mother told me that I’d have days like this. I wish I could space them out better.

  Wipo rubbed his gill slits in short circular motions. “I have reviewed tee tape of your interrogation. Your skillfully feigned buffoonery does not fool me.”

  “Trust me, Wipo. Buffoonery is one thing I don’t feign.”

  “It is clear t’at you exerted tee exact amount of effort necessary to extricate yourself without revealing tee mastery you and your fellow vampires exert over Terra’s affairs. I must have information to assess tee danger t’at you vampires represent. I suppose I could torture you.”

  “Torture?” I grimaced. “Ah, what did you have in mind?”

  “Perhaps a few hours of home movies.”

  Everyone has their breaking point. “What did you want to know?”

  “Ah, your very willingness to respond illustrates my dilemma! How can I test tee veracity of your responses? Yes, I am afraid torturing you is an inherently unreliable way to obtain information.”

  I tried not to smile. “What a dam shame.”

  “So instead we will execute you.”

  “Ah, come again?”

  “When Terra and Plixxi inevitably deliver protests, we will sorrowfully attribute your unfortunate demise to your delicate healt’, a clever touch, would not you say?”

  “Ah, excuse me.” I coughed. “I must have been dozing off during part of this conversation. Why execute me?”

  “Several years ago, we realized t’at tee Confederation was denying us access to many of Terra’s books, including books about such topics as vampires.”

  I nodded. “I mean, this is all very fascinating, and I don’t mean to be pushy, but on Earth you hardly ever get executed unless some computer company catches you with unregistered software—can, uh, we revisit the part about me being executed?”

  “In due course. Initially, we focused our information-gathering on Terra’s colonies, where our activities are not as closely monitored. We encountered difficulties.” This was understandable. Your average colonist only reads the back of cereal boxes. “Ah, I hate to belabor the point—”

  Wipo reached into his desk and held up a sleazy novel in dramatic fashion. “Yet we have circumvented Terra’s elaborate safeguards. And while much has been censored from tee forbidden books we have been able to acquire, we have learned far more t’an you ever expected us to, Mr. MacKay—or should I call you Mr. Bond? Mr. James Bond, secret agent 007.”

  My jaw dropped about twelve centimeters.

  Wipo’s gill sl
its flared. “Ah, you react! I am greatly obliged to you for confirming my suspicions.” He picked up a small bastinado off the top of a filing cabinet and began fingering it.

  “Wipo, I’m not quite sure how to break this to you, but you’re making a very big mistake.”

  “Spare me your denials. To recapitulate our reasoning, in perusing various texts, we discovered t’at James Bond’s career spans nearly seventy-five years, yet he does not age and is not subject to civil service rules. We were deeply puzzled until one scholar recognized t’at vampires also do not age. Obviously, James Bond is a vampire.”

  At least they hadn’t gotten their hands on any vampire novels written by women in heavy makeup. I sucked in my breath. “Uh, Wipo, let me try this one step at a time. There is no James Bond. James Bond is a made-up character for stories. James Bond doesn’t exist.”

  “Oh, I realize t’is.”

  Just as I started to relax, he added, “James Bond is, of course, a persona you adopted and discarded as soon as his exploits became too notorious. But when we saw a movie about tee exploits of Ken MacKay, tee resemblance became obvious.”

  As programmers are fond of saying, garbage in, garbage out. I looked up at the ceiling. “Okay, Wipo, how does this squirrelly idea of yours factor in to me getting executed?”

  “One constant in James Bond narratives is t’at when your enemies capture you, instead of simply killing you, t’ey subject you to an elaborate death trap from which you invariably escape. T’is occurs far too frequently to be coincidental. A group of scholars finally recognized what was being censored out.”

  “Dear Lord,” I murmured. “Why me?”

  “It is manifest, Mr. Bond, t’at tee ingenious death traps in t’ese narratives were conceived to force you to reveal your vampirish nature and tee extent of your powers.”

  It occurred to me that if I could only figure out how to get out of this alive, I could make Alt Bauemhof the laughingstock of the known universe. “Why do you guys want to conquer the universe anyway? Think of the bureaucracy you’d need to run it.”

  “We have never quite understood tee squeamishness you Terrans manifest about taking ot’er beings’ property, even when you really want it. ‘Tee good old rule / Sufficet’ t’em, tee simple plan / T at t’ey should take, who have tee power / And t’ey should keep who can,’ “ Wipo declaimed. He looked at me expectantly. “Shakespeare?” I guessed.