The VMR Theory (v1.1) (9 page)

“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 different 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.”

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 slits 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.

“Wordsworth. From ‘Rob Roy’s Grave.’ To better perform my duties, I have made myself an expert on your culture. Fitting lines, would not you say?”

“Uh, sure.” Every second alien seems to know more English literature than I do.

Wipo drew himself up to his full height. “We will place you in your escape-proof cell to contemplate your fate. T’en you will be forced to establish your vampirish superiority beyond question, or perish.”

“I want my lawyer.”

Wipo decided he had enough vermin around the place and had me marched to my cell, where, to shorten an otherwise tedious story, the dust bunnies were larger and the food was atrocious.

Bright and early the next morning a gaggle of guards appeared to haul me away. I thought about slugging a couple and making a dash for it in the hope that the other twenty or so would shoot each other instead of me, but after they trussed me up and hung me over a pole, the moment did not appear opportune.

Wipo was waiting for me in his usual good spirits. “Ah, Mr. Bond! Good morning. Prepare to meet your doom.”

“Can we knock it off with this ‘Mr. Bond’ stuff?”

“As you wish.”

As his boys unhitched me from my pole, I noticed a very large metal door with a few dents in it, and a very rank odor. “I gather what I’m smelling isn’t breakfast.”

“Ah, such levity in tee face of doom! Come see for yourself.” He escorted me over to the view slit. “T’is is tee arena, tee Vor’dur. Two go in. Only one comes out. As for your opponent, call him ‘Big Boy.’ “

Big Boy was wine-colored with a green belly, and uglier than Gwen’s mother. He was lounging around the far end of the arena snacking on what looked like half a cow. I may not know the difference between

Yangchouanosaurus shangyouensis
and
Allosaurus atrox,
but I do know a theropod dinosaur when I see one. Theropod dinosaurs have two big feet with very large claws, and a big head full of very large teeth. They also have long, stiff tails for balance and other characteristics of interest to paleontologists, but teeth and claws are what I focus on.

“If this is a hologram, it’s not funny. In fact, even if this is
not
a hologram, it’s not funny.”

“It is a shadur, our planet’s largest predator. It bears an uncanny resemblance to certain Terran predators which died out over sixty-five million of your years—”

“I know what it bears an uncanny resemblance to,” I snapped.

Wipo made a curious little noise in his throat. He pulled out a little notebook and began writing something down, speaking aloud as he did so. My dictionary translated, “Subject appears familiar with Earth predators called dinosaurs. Query: Can vampires have far longer life spans than previously suspected?”

He looked at me. “You excite my curiosity, Mr. MacKay. Up until now, tee longest life span we have been able to identify for a vampire is t’at of one Nicholas of Myra, alias Santa Claus.”