The VMR Theory (v1.1) (8 page)

“Yes. I happen to
like
bunnies.”

“Here, I have something to show you.” She passed across a thick stack of paper. “Take a look at these numbers.”

“Sure.” I scanned them briefly. “What are they?”

“Economic figures. Real data for a change. Credit here is incredibly tight. What little there is the government is steering into heavy industry, but the output isn’t reappearing in the civilian sector.”

“That’s great. What does it mean?”

“My guess is that it means that the Macdonalds are switching to a war economy and that their navy is going to be ready to challenge us sooner than we think. I’ve been looking at recent government appointments, and it looks like the war party is in the saddle. I’m guessing that a surprise attack on the Confederation is imminent.”

“We have to get this information back to Lydia!” I said, hoping, of course, that she would say it was our duty to get it back as soon as possible.

“That’s already been taken care of. Unfortunately, those numbers probably aren’t enough to convince the analysts on Earth. We need Blok. My guess is that Trixie is one of his agents, and he turned you in so she could find out whether he could trust the vampires who he suspects of running the Confederation.” She unwrapped a chocolate bar and split it with me while she mulled this over. “Did Trixie squeeze enough out of you?”

“I probably passed out a little too early in the proceedings.”

“I’m the only other vamp they know of.”

“From Trixie’s comments, I gather that this mind-reading stuff only works across genders. Do you mean I’ve got to go back and let Trixie pick my brain again?” Catarina nodded, her mouth full.

“Why isn’t it somebody else’s turn to save the universe for a change? What was it that guy Nathan Hale said, ‘I regret that I have but one life to give for my country.’ “

“I think he emphasized different words.”

“If Trixie picks my brain, they’re going to know that we know they’re planning to attack.”

“It may spook them into attacking before they’re ready. How does the saying go, ‘Hasty strokes often go awry’?”

“Isn’t that the third verse to ‘Auld Lang Syne’?” I scratched my legs, which were still itching. “Darn it! And to top everything off, I have bites from whatever was crawling around that miserable hole they stuck me in. I thought this blood-sucking stuff was supposed to work the other way around.”

“Your fluids probably poisoned whatever bit you.” Catarina smiled lazily. “Just take things lice and easy.”

I closed my eyes.

“Should I have said ‘nice and fleasy’?” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “First, get some rest. I’ll look into what Bobby’s been up to, and we’ll play things by ear for a day or two.”

A few minutes after she left, I heard a tentative rapping at my window. I tried to burrow underneath my pillow. A moment later the window came crashing down on the floor.

“Psst! Ken! Are you awake?”

“I am now,” I groaned. “Harry, what are you doing out there?”

Harry climbed into the room over the wreckage of the window frame and dusted himself off. “I need to talk to you, Ken. You know, man-to-man, or man-to-vamp.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra breathing mask on you?”

“Uh, right! Sure thing.” He pulled one out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“I’m surprised we haven’t heard any alarms. Normally, about sixteen of them go on when you break into an embassy.”

“Oh, I got Muffy to take care of it,” Harry said proudly as he sat down on the end of the bed. “She’s pretty good with that sort of thing.” Muffy stuck her head up, chirruped, and disappeared.

“How’s Wyma Jean?” I asked as my end of the bed tilted upward alarmingly.

Harry nodded assertively. “She’s doing pretty well. She’s been kind of peckish the last three or four days. I think she’s worried about her pet snake.”

I croaked, “Her pet
what?
“

“He’s a Colombian boa. He’s really cute. You should see him. We named him Frisky.”

“I’ll just bet you did.” I swallowed hard. “I don’t remember anybody asking me if they could bring a snake on board my ship.”

“Well, after the cat split, we had to get her some kind of pet.” Harry began moving his hands like a windmill. “And with the ship about to lift and with you in jail so we really couldn’t talk to you about it, well—”

I reached out to slow down his left hand as it passed. “What does this snake eat?”

“Well, do you know that big bag marked ‘linguine’ in the back of the freezer that’s full of frozen mice?”

I shut my eyes. “So you’re telling me there’s a pet snake aboard my ship.”

“Well, we’re pretty sure he’s still there. I mean, he got loose, but it’s not like he can walk off the ship or anything.” After a moment of pregnant silence Harry leaned forward. “Could we talk about the snake later? I need help, Ken. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

I sighed. “Okay, Harry. Calm down. There’s some wine in the refrigerator. Why don’t you pour yourself a glass and tell me about it.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” He took the bottle out. Not finding a corkscrew immediately handy, he absently used the side of the refrigerator to knock the neck off the bottle. He poured himself a glass, took a sip, and his face convulsed. “What is this stuff?”

“It’s a local product.” I took the bottle out of his hand and squinted at the label. “It says ‘Genuine California White Zinfandel.’ “

Harry dropped the glass and leaped away, forming a cross with his index fingers. “White Zin?” It came out like “White Death.”

“Do you know what kind of people drink White Zin?”

Although I knew Harry equated alcohol-free beer with hydrogen-free water, I didn’t know he had wine fetishes. “Well, yes, but—”

“Ken, if people see me drinking White Zin, it’s all over. They’ll start thinking that I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.”

“Harry, they already think that.”

“I mean it’s the end, Ken,” Harry said hoarsely, shaking his head. “People catch me drinking this and I might as well buy a cat and register Democrat. You won’t tell, will you? Promise me you won’t tell!”

“I promise,” I said soothingly. “Pour it down the sink and no one will ever know that zinfandel sullied your fair lips.”

He poured the wine down the sink and glared at me. “Where did the Macdonalds get the idea of drinking this stuff?”

“Well, I guess the Contact boys taught them how to make it.”

“God! What foul fiends in human form!” His eyes blazed. “Don’t you see,” he said eagerly, “it all fits. The fanaticism, the envy, the hatred the Macdonalds have for human beings—it’s from drinking this! Ken, we can
save
these people!”

“I had no idea,” I said. Then reality kicked in. “Wait a minute. No. No. No. Harry, you’re overreacting. Are you seriously trying to tell me that the Macdonalds are upgrading themselves to become the scourge of the galaxy because they’ve been drinking cheap wine?” Harry drew on his professional expertise. “White Zin makes for a
mean
drunk.” He shook me by the arm to emphasize his point. “Have you ever heard of…
yuppies
?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“This is what they drink.” He motioned across his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

I coughed. “Maybe we can come back to this White Zin thing later. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Well, it’s about Muffy. I want to help her, Ken.”

“Have you talked to Wyma Jean, your g-i-r-l-f-r-i-e-n-d, about this?”

“Well, no. She won’t mind, will she?”

“Harry, I know Wyma Jean likes vegetable oil, but I don’t think she’s into threesomes.”

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.”