The VMR Theory (v1.1) (19 page)

“We can always write it off on next year’s taxes as an unreimbursed business expense.” With that she was gone. We watched as she stealthily crept along a hedge that looked like embalmed sauerkraut until she reached the street.

“Not much of a diversion,” Calvin sniffed.

He was closer to the edge than I was, and I considered creating my own diversion. A moment later Catarina reached the car without being spotted. She turned around, put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. Instantly, every cop wandering around the building turned to see what was up. She held up her arm and waved. “Yoo hoo, over here!” She climbed inside, and Trixie put pedal to the plastic.

The effect on the cops was galvanic. They all piled back into their cars and sped off in hot pursuit.

“You know, Ken, I don’t mean to sound critical, but this is almost as disorganized as if you had a bunch of politicians running it,” Calvin grumped as we climbed down. I tried thinking pleasant thoughts.

The cops hadn’t gotten around to locking the door on us, so we were in, a fact I immediately had cause to regret. Despite the breathing mask I was wearing, which was designed to filter out particulate matter and a number of unhealthy gases, the interior smelled like dead whale, which is one of those lively but penetrating odors that stick with your clothing and the lining of your respiratory apparatus. I had no doubt that I would be reminded of the moment for hours, if not years, to come.

The wig and Elvis mask weren’t helping me very much so I ditched them. As fertilizer flakes drifted and eddied around the dome in the glare of our lights, I sighed and said, “I can’t help feeling that there’s something very symbolic about all of this.”

“You know, Ken,” Calvin observed, “your problem is that you talk so gosh-damed much that no one else can hardly get a word in edgewise. You know, when I was your age, I learned that the most important thing that a human being can learn is to be able to suffer in silence, which reminds me of a little story—”

“Oh, look,” I said, “there’s one of the charges.”

We fried the motion sensor.

“So far, so good,” I commented.

Calvin sat down with a pair of wire cutters and began working on the charge. Suddenly, he stopped. He waved the wire cutters for emphasis. “You know, Ken, I’ve been giving this some thought.”

“Eh?”

“What is the right thing to do here? I mean, don’t you see—these Macdonalds just aren’t very nice people, and we’re going to have to settle with the goomers sooner or later.”

“Later is nice.”

“I mean, they’re spoiling for a fight, and the longer the dang-blasted Confederation bureaucrats wait to give them one, the tougher they’re going to be.”

“Come again?”

“Ken, the Confederation is just bumbling along here. The problem is a failure of leadership. These guys are trying to push past us, and all we do is sit around and whine about it. It’s just goofy. We’ve stopped being tough and resilient. All we want to do is feel good for the moment and let the future take care of itself. What we need to do is hunker down and concentrate on some blocking and tackling—you see what I’m saying?”

“Can we talk about this after we disarm the charges here?”

“But don’t you see, Ken, when you see a snake, you kill it—you don’t hire a consultant and form a committee on snakes. If we just make things happen here, when the little people back home see what’s going on, they’ll force the bureaucrats to do the right thing!” His eyes misted over. “Don’t you see that the future of the Confederation is in our hands?”

“Calvin, are you sure this is the right time and place to discuss this?”

Calvin folded his arms. “Ken, there is always no better time and place to start than the present.”

I stared up at the ceiling. Calvin was clearly one of those people who would rather be right than president and didn’t have to worry too much one way or the other. “If I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying we should let the bomb go off and wait for the war to start. Did it possibly occur to you that this might be the tiniest bit illegal, immoral, and fattening?”

“Ken, you got to quit hanging ‘round those ivory tower guys. Roll up your sleeves and get under the hood on this thing!”

“But—”

“Get down here in the real world, where the rubber meets the road!”

“But-—”

“Ken, let me try and explain this to you one more time, nice and simple.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Now, see this diagram here—”

“Uh, Calvin—”

“Are you going to let me finish a sentence here? I have no patience with people who won’t let me get a single word out. There aren’t many hunters left, but everybody wants the meat. Now, as I was saying—”

“Calvin, can I—”

“Ken, can I just finish
one
sentence without interruption? I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work. It’s like trying to slip sunrise past a rooster. You remember I don’t need to be here, and if you keep badgering me like this, I’ll be out of here in a New York minute. Let me tell you a little story.”

The story had a great deal to do with goats and chickens, but not a whole lot to do with demolition charges, and “little” was obviously an elastic term. Sincerity being an overrated virtue, I picked up both of the taser guns. “Do these things work?” I aimed one and pulled the trigger.

“Ouch! That was my foot, you big dummy!”

“That was the general idea.”

Whatever his other faults, Calvin was not stupid. “You wouldn’t do that! It’s inhuman!”

I fired another bolt of electricity that landed about an inch from his right shoe. “I’m not human—I’m a vamp. And I am having a really rotten week, so let’s get with the program. If you help me pull the charges, you’re a hero. If you don’t, you’re a lightning rod. Which would you prefer, Column A or Column B?”

Column A, it was. Using Belkasim’s diagram, we drilled some holes, shot out the motion sensors, and removed the charges carefully to avoid creating sparks which might potentially complicate and/or shorten my existence. It took us ten or fifteen minutes, and Calvin, who apparently did have a rudimentary sense of self-preservation, was unnaturally quiet throughout.

As we stacked the last charge neatly by the door, I said, “Good job, Calvin.”

“Don’t imagine you can get back in my good graces just like that!” he snapped.

I opened the door. “Uh, Calvin—”

“There is no more forgiving man on the face of this planet, but if you think that I’m going to forget for one minute—”

I tugged at his sleeve. “Uh, Calvin—”

“And don’t try and change the subject!” He turned his head to see what I was looking at and shut up.

I grinned weakly. “Hello, Wipo.”

“We meet again, Mr. MacKay. Or may I say, Mr. Bond.” Wipo was holding something that looked like a stovepipe with a steroid problem. “Place your hands in tee air and do not move. I am holding a zapor gun pointed at your heart.”

“My least vulnerable part.” I tilted my head. “Don’t you mean vapor gun?”

“No.” Wipo aimed the thing at my midsection. “It is a product of our technology. If I pull tee trigger, it will excite every nerve ending in your body with hideous pain.”

It sounded too much like being married, so reluctantly I raised my hands. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good bail bondsman, would you? Normally, I keep a card on me, but—”

“Come wit’ me to tee car.” Wipo wrinkled his nose. Then he wrinkled it again. “Perhaps, on second t’ought, we should hose you down first.”

After Wipo’s boys gave me a quick rinse and dry, we drove four blocks to Special Secret Police Headquarters. Along the way I figured out that, unlike their underlings, Macdonald bigwigs ride in cars with
big
fuzzy dice. When we arrived, large persons with sharp spears escorted me back down to my cell.

There were a few changes in the old hole. There was now fresh hardware on the wall—ringbolts and such—as well as a little table with a vase of white roses on top to give the place a homey atmosphere. A little guy with a hangdog expression came by to check my inseam and shuddered when he saw my taste in clothing. He took measurements and returned with form-fitting shackles for my waist, ankles, thighs, upper arms, and wrists.

Wipo dropped by a few hours later to assess progress and found me whistling “The Lonely Bull” to cope with what was turning out to be yet another set of Class 3 rapids in the river of life.

“Ah, Mr. Bond, hanging around, I see.”

I remembered reading somewhere that Cro-Magnons used to scrawl that joke on cave walls. “I hope you’re not planning on giving up your day job for the comedy circuit.”

“You wound me, Mr. Bond.”

“Call me MacKay. That thought
has
crossed my mind.”

“Ah, such levity in tee face of horrible execution!”

“Touching on what is rapidly becoming a very sore point, I hear you guys abolished capital punishment.” Wipo clicked his tongue a few times. “Well, Mr. MacKay, modem penology embraces tee notion t’at every criminal has a sublimated deat’ wish, so we merely view it as assisted suicide for our criminals in denial.”

“How quaint. Modem liberalism in action.”

“In your case, to be assured of your utter destruction, we have decided to lock you into a tiny spacecraft and fire you into tee sun.”

I stared up at the ceiling, which needed repainting. “Mind telling me how you came up with this charming idea?”

“Actually, one of your commentators described it as, ‘A recurring plot device affected by bored and perpetually clueless writers,’ but we have not been able to uncover tee meaning of t’is statement.”

“I don’t mean to quibble, but isn’t this a rather expensive way to get rid of me?”

Wipo smirked. “One of our movie studios has offered to pick up tee tab. We will call tee picture, ‘Twilight of tee Vampire,’ and as technical consultant, I will receive seven percent of tee Terran and Martian syndication rights. Moreover, as it is necessary for mailship RVN 23 to have an unfortunate accident to prevent you from blabbing our nefarious plot all over tee galaxy, combining tee two operations by stuffing you into tee mailship and shooting you into tee fiery heart of a star would appear to be an excellent way to reduce costs.”

RVN 23 was Swervin’ Irvin. I shivered at the thought of spending my final hours in his company. “Aren’t you at least going to pump me for information before turning me into a Roman candle?”

“Why? Your accomplice has already confessed to unspeakable crimes.” Wipo gestured to one of my guards, who brought down a wireless closed-circuit television that showed Calvin strapped to a chair with a red welt across his forehead.

I said tersely, “You didn’t have to rough him up like that to get him to talk.”

“Actually, we had to rough him up to get him to shut up.” Wipo gestured for the guard to haul the TV away. “As furt’er evidence of your obvious guilt, we have uncovered tee missile launcher you cunningly concealed underneat’ tee grain aboard your ship. Someone, er, accidentally pushed tee wrong button.”

“Oh, great,” I groaned. “Now I’ve got a new hole in the hull and a hold full of wheat toasties!”

“In a few short moments tee problem will cease to concern you, Mr. MacKay. Pardon me while I savor tee experience.”

“The pinnacle of a postal career, huh?” I said, hoping to extend the conversation for a few hours, months, or years.

A subtle change came over Wipo. “Ah, once again, you surprise me, Mr. MacKay.” He began pacing the room. “Having copied tee best features of tee Confederation’s postal system, our postal service is brutal, tense, and violent, dedicated to converting individuals into mere machines. Only tee strongest survive, to become stronger, like steel tempered in a forge. I had to become hard—or break.” He stared at me. “Having been forced as a vampire to maintain tee pretense t’at you serve mere humans, surely you comprehend how demeaning it was for me to have no one to release my frustrations upon, except customers? My tortured soul rebelled against such tyranny!”

“Uh, do you find you like secret police work better?”

“Tee hours are good, and I can play wit’ guns on government time.” He began pacing again. “You realize t’at you upset a wonderful plan. It took years of preparation to lure tee underground into discrediting t’emselves by accepting alien assistance to bomb tee very symbol of puling democracy, and you had to go and spoil it all.”

“Uh, sorry.” I shifted my weight and tried rubbing my back against the wall. The worst thing about being hung in chains is that when you itch, you can’t scratch. “What have you got against democracy, anyway?”

Wipo glowered. “Democracy enshrines tee right of demagogues of tee lowest caliber to pander to tee base and selfish instincts of tee most ignoble elements in society, inevitably submerging superior beings in a tidal wave of tastelessness and stupidity and imperiling tee very existence of civilization and culture.”

“Give it time. They used to say the same thing about TV.”

Wipo stared at me for a moment without speaking. “Certain individuals wish to gloat over you prior to your demise.” He gestured to the guards.

A Rodent, a human, and an elderly Macdonald came down the steps. The Rodent had a poniard hanging from a jeweled belt and what can best be described as a lean and hungry look. I squinted at him. “Excuse me, but you look familiar.”

“It is the family resemblance, I am sure.” Twirling his vibrissae, he crossed over to the table and plucked a rose from the vase. “You may call me Mordred. You killed several of my demi-brothers and robbed me of the throne which rightfully should have been mine.”

“Ah, pleased to meet you,” I said feebly.

“You don’t say?” Mordred began munching on the rose and stopped. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I am forgetting my manners. Would you care for one? They’re quite tasty.”

“Uh, no thanks, I’m on a diet. Who’s your friend with the floppy eyebrows?”

The human had a long, bony jaw and the kind of impassive, ageless face you see anchoring the late night news. His eyes were yellow-gray. His chin was a jutting vee under the more flexible vee of his mouth. His nostrils curved to make another, smaller vee. The vee motif was repeated in his thick eyebrows, in the twin creases above his nose, in a small blonde goatee, and in his hair, which grew down to a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blonde Satan.