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944. alistairConnor - 2/21/2009 12:52:39 PM [No, Nu, I don't do graphic... But perhaps Jen can? Jen, I'm still waiting for news from that English cottage... and from the NY interview, come to that. Better hurry, ladies... I need Kronen in Geneva.] 945. alistairConnor - 2/21/2009 2:00:10 PM In the hour before dawn, as they made love for the third time, with less urgency this time, Dumitra, who was never one for wasting time, questioned Hank closely about his mission, and about the Organisation.
She summarized : "So, we have to kill the vampire girl. Easy enough. But these other people know too much, we'll need to kill them too. The Rumanian doctor. The Arab woman. The New Zealand guy." She paused for a second. "And, to be safe, we should kill his daughters too."
Hank went soft. Dumitra laughed harshly. "I thought you were a hard man? No moral scruples, no remorse, serving a Higher Cause? But you've got a soft heart."
Then, tenderly, "In that case... I suppose we'd better prepare to face this Master Mirca. But in the meantime... fuck me some more, Boy Wonder."
946. alistairConnor - 2/23/2009 12:14:29 AM As she ate her breakfast, Halima wondered what challenges Dumitra would cause her today. She had gone Coffed after lunch the previous day, and could be expected to wake any time.
She had been apprehensive about being left alone to accompany Dumitra's drying out; with good reason. But there really hadn't been any other options.
They had decided that Courtney would be safer in Geneva, under the protection of the WHO. Albu had been positively drooling with excitement at the possibility to study the Imperative effect with a co-operative master and slave as subjects. Alistair had negotiated three months' unpaid leave with his employer, and both he and Courtney had signed contracts as lab assistants ("lab rats, more like it", as Alistair had observed, not inaccurately.)
When he had returned from Rumania with Dumitra, Cascu, exhausted, red-eyed, was visibly in shock from the realisation that his beloved was a vampire. He had handed her over into Halima's care, then took himself off to Geneva too.
In the few days since then, Halima had grown to like Dumitra, but certainly not to trust her. Sullen and depressed mostly, prone to sudden rages, projecting a palpable aura of nihilism, she was nevertheless an intriguing and engaging personality, full of piercing insights and the blackest of humour. She seemed to be sincere in her desire to break free of meth and make a new start; but it was really too early to tell. In any case, she was full of surprises.
And she proved it again that morning, turning up to breakfast with a boy in tow. 947. alistairConnor - 2/24/2009 12:47:53 AM "Ah... good morning." said Halima tentatively. "And who is this?"
"This is my lover... well, what is your name, darling?"
Hank felt a bit sullen and shy, but he was so elated with love that he couldn't be mean to anyone. "Iancu", he replied.
"Oh, so you're Rumanian too?"
"No. Yes. Not really. It's a family tradition."
Halima had been on the phone with Lara a lot, she had a fair idea how the Organisation would operate. And she knew a terrorist when she saw one. Or more precisely, an assassin, she thought.
As she prepared breakfast for them, she asked a few questions, in a conversational manner. Hank answered readily enough, confirming her suppositions : yes, he was a vampire, he was from California, he had come here looking for a vampire, but not Dumitra.
Interesting situation. Debriefing a terrorist is a delicate task, you need to decide if you want maximum information or if you're more interested in turning him around. That seemed a distinct possibility : he had failed in his mission, he had found love, could his loyalties be reversed? He was plainly on Cloud Nine.
Dumitra too. They were completely wrapped up in each other. As they had breakfast, Halima nudged the conversation around gently, encouraging Hank to continue volunteering information, filling in harmless family details about herself and Alistair to make him confortable, to draw him out.
Dumitra realised what she was doing, and felt a brief raging surge of jealousy. Had she met her match as a manipulator of men? But she was confident of her superior hold on Hank. And she smiled to herself, and decided to play along. "Come on, Iancu", she said. "Halima is wondering what you really came here for. I think you should tell her."
And so he did. He made a full and frank confession of his mission, in a remarkably detached manner.
She should be terrified, she realised. They might be toying with her. These two could tear her apart and eat her, take her hostage, anything at all. Whose side were they on? Their own, she supposed. Their very own Republic of Two. They were capable of the worst, or the best. Should she appeal to their better instincts? Or simply offer them a family, a clan, to value and protect them?
She decided that she would lay all her cards on the table, and take the risk that they might report back to the Organisation. She explained about the WHO operation: dedicated to advancing the understanding of public health issues surrounding vampirism, it was in no way hostile to vampires, but on the contrary, was destined to promote co-operation. She herself was considering a firm offer to manage the team; she was reluctant to give up her current job. She invited him to join them.
"I'm finished with the Organisation", said Hank. "There's no going back, they will kill me if they can."
His cell phone vibrated against his thigh. It was a text message, from Peter Brown : "Abort mission. Drive to Davos, Switzerland, and await instructions." 948. alistairConnor - 2/25/2009 2:48:19 AM This was the first seminar of the new World Health Organisation Vampirology Institute, and Professor Albu was as happy as a pig in muck. The attendance was not numerous but select : Sorin, Courtney, Alistair, and Dr Ayotunde of the WHO. Dr Kronen was excused; they were expecting him in another couple of days.
Ayotunde was the head of the "Unorthodox Practices and Pathologies" section of the WHO. Outsiders generally assumed that the section was a haven of quackery, featherbedding and corruption; nothing could be further from the truth. Olutobi Ayotude was both indulgent and rigorous in his management style; he gave the most unlikely teams the benefit of the doubt, and a decent budget; but he followed their progress closely, and if they didn't come up with either publishable scientific results, or pragmatically applicable methods, they got the chop. Less than half of the programs survived beyond their first year; but he had nurtured some remarkable successes. He was currently in the indulgent phase with respect to Albu's program : polite suspension of disbelief.
"Today's subject is the history and sociology of the Imperative Effect", Albu began. "The scientific basis of the effect is relatively well-understood these days, thanks in great part to the work of Dr Kronen. I will not go into that aspect today.
"As far back as history or legend records, vampires have been feared for, among other things, their alleged power of compulsion over their victims. This phenomenon is real enough, but has been greatly magnified in the transcription and re-telling.
"The archetypal vampire habit, or compulsion, of sucking the blood of their human victims without killing them, gives rise to a phenomenon of cross-infection : the vampire ingests the victim's blood, and this blood is metabolised in the vampire's body in ways which enter into synergy with certain forces which have generally been classed as paranormal or supernatural, but which have now definitively entered the realm of nuclear physics. But I am wandering onto Kronen's territory... In short, the vampire acquires the capacity to control their subject.
"On one condition : the subject, or victim, must have been infected by certain organisms hosted by the vampire. Without entering into detail, it seems that mitochondria are the active principle. However, it turns out that the classic schema of the vampire biting the subject and sucking a certain quantity of blood, is a fairly ineffective vector for these organisms. It is estimated that only 15% of attacks result in an infection.
"However, repeated attacks on one victim -- which, at least in feudal times, may have been the rule rather than the exception -- will generally result in infection over the long term. The incubation period is itself rather long --from a few months to several years. 949. alistairConnor - 2/25/2009 3:30:21 AM The atmosphere was studious. Professor Albu continued :
"The rate of infection is considerably increased if there are sexual relations between the vampire and the subject. This was far from uncommon in the archetypal case of blood-sucking attacks. But the mechanism also holds, of course, for consenting sexual relationships, which, if they are sustained for more than a few months, inevitably give rise to the Imperative Effect.
"It follows, as you will no doubt already have realised, that vampire marriages are exceptionally long-lived and stable."
Here he got his first laugh of the day. "So, Professor," said Ayotunde, "married vampires control each other? Who has the upper hand : the husband or the wife?"
"In general, vampire marriages are fairly egalitarian", said Albu. "Vampires have differing levels of the vital force which is Kronen's domain, but this variability is evenly distributed between the sexes. In any case, this force does not, in practice, give the stronger vampire control over their spouse : it's more of a situation of nuclear stand-off: each can destroy the other, so mutual respect is an obligation."
"And in the case of a, er, morganatic marriage -- between vampire and non-vampire?" asked Alistair. "I suppose the vampire has complete control?"
"Quite", Albu approved. "To return to vampire marriage : once the Imperative Effect is in place, it is permanent. Marital harmony or otherwise is not guaranteed; the peculiar intimacy of the vampire marriage seems, anecdotally, to have been a great source of misery in all historical periods. Vampires are notoriously hard to kill, which explains the relatively low spousal murder rate. The only cure for the Imperative effect, short of death, is exile; historically, this is a recurrent phenomenon. This has not been scientifically studied, but it appears that the minimum distance to escape the Effect is of the order of a thousand miles.
"Needless to say, there is no such thing as divorce for vampires." 950. alistairConnor - 2/25/2009 3:33:00 AM Courtney stood up. "You're wrong about that, Professor. Vampires can get divorced."
Everyone turned to look at her, surprised. She stammered : "At least, they can in California."
This provoked general hilarity. But Courtney was close to tears. Albu held up his hands for silence and gave her the floor : "Please continue, child."
"My mother went to New Zealand to escape an abusive relationship. She was manipulated by her husband, and she refused to manipulate him, on moral grounds. Then she met my father in New Zealand, and married him... That sounds like bigamy I suppose, but she was only married with the vampire rite in California, there was no civil marriage... I don't know whether that makes it better or worse... Anyway, she left my father when I was ten... she couldn't help controlling him, and she couldn't bear that."
She was overcome by emotion for a while. The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats; Sorin eventually gave her a hug. She continued : "She took me back to California and negotiated a divorce with her vampire husband. She never told me how it worked, but it seemed pretty complicated. I had to stay with friends for a couple of weeks while she was preparing for it, then I attended the final ceremony. She looked ill : she'd lost weight, and quite a bit of hair, it took weeks to recover her health afterwards. Some sort of vampire official made them sign some documents and then made them recite something I didn't understand, sort of a poem.
Then he pronounced the divorce. I remember that part clearly, he said:
Lara Panaitescu, Peter Brown, your bond is dissolved.
"And that was that." 951. Jenerator - 2/25/2009 2:53:31 PM [Alistair, I don't write as well as you, Nu and Webbie. I am afraid if I jump in, it will wreck your story.] 952. alistairConnor - 2/27/2009 9:26:47 AM [Jen,I'm honoured to be bracketed with the other two... but don't fret, just spit it out. I've got the feeling that Kronen, with his geeky charm, is quite the sexual adventurer. And this will doubtless prove to be crucial to the plot. So even an apparently gratuitous sex scene will contribute to the development of the story... just do it! we'll tie it back in.] 953. alistairConnor - 2/27/2009 9:45:17 AM [attention : clumsy flashback ahead]
Hank got up abruptly and left the table, explaining "Text message. From my mother."
Dumitra and Halima looked at each other; their eyes met; they smiled. "So, is this love?" asked Halima.
"I think so, yes." She was radiant.
They had already cleared the decks with respect to Sorin, the previous day. It had been a stormy, intense conversation:
"He still loves you. Do you love him?"
Dumitra wept silently. "Yes, yes I love him. But it is an impossible love. It can never be. He is not hard enough."
"You mean he is weak?"
"No, no, Sorin is strong. But too gentle, too respectful."
"You need a man who will slap you around?"
Dumitra laughed, and wept. "Maybe."
"And how did you manage to conceal the fact that you were a vampire? You were studying the subject together..."
"Oh you know, love is blind. You see what you want to see. And I was careful. Very careful. We used condoms..."
"Yes, his blood test for the Imperative effect was negative... that's quite remarkable!"
"I didn't know myself that I was a vampire, until puberty."
"But your parents...?"
"I am an orphan. Yes, I grew up in an orphanage, a big one in Bucarest, in the seventies and eighties. Not a happy childhood, no.
"When I was fifteen, and needed a coffin, I didn't know what was happening to me. I ran away from the orphanage. I thought I was going mad. I nearly died. In the end, by instinct, I broke into a funeral parlour, and collapsed into a coffin. When I awoke two days later, the undertaker raped me." 954. alistairconnor - 2/27/2009 2:23:34 PM "Then he threw me out. I broke in again a couple of nights later and stole a coffin. I also tried to set fire to the shop, but it didn't take.
"This was just after the revolution, in 1990. Things got pretty desperate at the orphanage. There literally was not enough to eat. I could have got more if I had consented to sexual favours, but I decided that, if it came to that, I would be better off to leave and become a prostitute. So I learned to steal instead.
"But I stayed at the orphanage, and finished high school. I was 16. Yes, I was a smart girl... Under the old regime, I could have attended university, but now there was no money for anything. The orphanage apprenticed me to a hairdresser.
"One day I happened to pass the undertaker's shop. I saw him through the window. He saw me, then fell to the floor, screaming in pain. That made me happy. I smiled and walked on.
"I came back another day. He saw me, and ran to the back of his shop. To hide from me. I wished he would fall and bump his head and... he did. I had discovered the Imperative effect.
"So I kept going back. I would stand outside the shop and make him do things. Anything that crossed my mind. Like the time I made him take off his pants and shit into a coffin." She smiled at the memory. "That attracted quite a crowd!"
"One day he beckoned me into the shop, and begged for mercy. He knew more about the Imperative effect than I did. To cut a long sordid story short : we made a deal. He agreed to pay money into my bank account, every month. Not very much, but enough to live on, and to attend university. We had to adjust for inflation several times, but it saw me through medical school. And it's still useful."
"You mean he's still paying?"
"I don't see why he shouldn't keep paying until he dies. Do you?" 955. alistairConnor - 2/27/2009 11:19:54 PM Hank sat on the toilet, trembling. A moment of choice had arrived.
He realised he'd never really made any choices. Last night, he had explored the possibility, but in the end he had gone with the flow of what he conceived as his manifest destiny. His mission had failed, but that was through no fault or decision of his own.
He felt that he had fallen through a sheet of ice and exploded into a new world; but, he realised, he had taken no responsibility for himself, for his actions. If Dumitra suggested they join the WHO, he would have gone along with that; if she had wanted him to stay with the Organisation, likewise. If she had wanted them to strike out on their own, the two of them against the world, like Bonnie and Clyde... he would have embraced that destiny, with joy.
And he said to himself : this is not how it should be. Dumitra is fragile, her moral compass is impaired. It is I who must decide for both of us what is right, what is fitting. She needs me, I must be strong and decisive for her.
So where does that leave us? he thought. Unexpectedly, I have a chance to resume my trajectory within the Organisation. There would be no reproach from anyone for the failed assassination. A new mission in Davos... Murder and mayhem among world leaders, that is an enticing prospect.
What about this WHO crowd? Can they genuinely advance the interests of vampires? They perceive themselves to be the good guys... but doesn't everybody? Will they forgive me for attempting to murder the girl? They will never trust me, that's for sure.
I could slip away now, take the car and go to Davos. And abandon Dumitra? Never. Strike that one.
I could take Dumitra with me. She would come. She would be a valuable resource for the Organisation. For the Cause... What is the Cause? What is the finality? The means are hateful, can the ends be unstained?
Not enough information. Impossible to make a definitive decision. Play for time. Play a role. Keep our options open. Go to Davos, via Geneva. Be a double agent. Tell no-one. Not even Dumitra? Not even Dumitra. 956. webfeet - 3/4/2009 4:42:22 PM Kronen, with his geeky charm is quite the sexual adventurer ...and this will doubtless be crucial to the plot. Doubtlessly.
Welcome back to The Me. I recently had the foggy and mildly ludicrous sensation of arriving in the Lyon airport at six am and realizing that I was at the germ, so to speak, of the flu-induced vampire chronicles. While the flu, I assume, is cured, the chronicles rage on, to all of our amusement.
After surviving our annual winter expedition to the alps in a house built for stunted montagnards who survived on potatoes and tartiflette for centuries, ergo the low-ceilings, and wooden beams that I bang into every now and then, I am back grace au dieu in New York. The home, in fact, was a grange at one time before beau-pere and belle-mere lovingly re-built the thing with the help of their amis, who all decided to buy homes beside them, like a soixante huitard colony de vacances. It is habitable, this alpine house of midgets, which I am forced to visit bi-annually for my children, la maison de famille. although it is far, far from being a Sheraton.
The house doesn't like me. And I don't like the house. Lodged in a cheerful attic where spiders, flies and bees hibernate through-out the winter, I have to descend a staircase so steep at two a.m. to use the w.c., you have to be an alpinist not to break your neck. I have these anxiety attacks when i wake in the middle of the night, and go through my own demented checklist before descending so that I won't stumble and kill myself on my way to the bathroom. And it's so cold at night, I go to bed dressed as the Taliban.
I wait, first, until I am fully concscious. Then I mentally rehearse the trajectory of my path: I rise, duck the wooden beam, then make the precarious descent in the darkness down the narrow steps, one by one. It's so dark, it's as if I'm blindfolded, and I hope that I make it down alive without freefalling and waking the whole house up.
Then it's down the chilly corridor to the water closet, which is the size of a pew, and as cold as a meatlocker. It has terrible vibe. Not just because it's the only toilet in a home that is usually shared by upward of six people, but because there is a rectangular window behind the toilet, and so that you always feel as if you're mooning the coyotes or god knows what horrible animals prowling outside, not to mention any weirdo that might be walking his dog or something at that still hour.
957. webfeet - 3/4/2009 4:42:35 PM On some days, while everyone is skiing, I sit at a desk underneath the sloping ceiling of the attic, and write like jack nicholson in The Shining. So, really, this is not at all what most people would describe as a fun ski vacation. Although in today's economy, I realize how privileged that sounds, but everyone carpets their own stairway to heaven or hell.
And I also create ficitonal in-laws to keep me company in my asylum. They're nice, easy-going people, like psychprof, perhaps, and his wife. Jack and Catherine. Catherine wears a flannel robe from LL Bean and makes pancakes in the morning, and Jack is erudite and witty and down to earth. we have funny, engaging discussions--without either one of them making a point to counter everything I say with the word "Non." I can't be wrong about everything, can I?
Once a long time ago, my father in law actually told me that anti-americanism didn't exist; it was an American invention. It was all in America's head. I have no energy anymore to refute these comments, because this is like my greyhound sejour. I have to do it twice a year and there is no point in getting mad and stonewalling people who bear genetic responsibility for the existence of my children. And I think at a certain point in adulthood, you reach a stage of maturity and don't feel the need to 'set the record straight' anymore and can just walk away sprinkling forgiveness over your shoulder, like Gandhi.
958. alistairconnor - 3/4/2009 5:06:07 PM Not coyotes, dear. Wolves, at a stretch. Foxes, quite likely.
I am still in the happy state of not having met my new [future] in-laws. This will end in June. I'm thinking of writing the script in advance, along the lines of a French remake of that film with Ben Stiller and Robt de Niro. 959. webfeet - 3/4/2009 9:21:23 PM Well, then you better lard your trip with a few casefuls of New Zealand pinot noir. Unbeknownst to BM, having never seen "Meet the Parents," she said nearly the same thing to me as Robert Deniro did to Ben Stiller. "Je te surveille, webfeet."
Once a few years ago, we brought les cousins CIA and FBI cats as a joke, and she took to wearing the CIA one; I nearly shat myself seeing her on the beach stalking me with it.
Oh, well. C'est la famille!
960. alistairconnor - 3/12/2009 1:59:34 PM After Courtney's account of Californian divorce, the phone rang.
It was Kronen, from New York. He would be arriving the following day. Albu turned on the speaker, and Kronen arranged to meet them at the CERN particle accelerator facility in the Geneva suburbs. "I will be coming directly from the airport. I have arranged for certain tests involving Courtney and Alistair."
He was up early, he explained, because he was going to be interviewed on breakfast television. "Some people criticise me for seeking celebrity, but you must understand : I work at the frontier between nuclear physics and cellular biology, it is very hard to get funding for my research because I don't fit into the normal categories. And publicity for my work may bring me to the attention of funders."
It turned out that the station he would be on was available on their cable TV, so they promised to watch him.
Alistair remarked to Sorin : "So, I suppose tomorrow they are going to tie us to titanium targets and bombard us with muons, gluons, leptons and hardons!"
Sorin smirked, and said "I think you mean hadrons."
Alistair replied, "Well in theory, it would be hadrons. But once they get us tied up, eh? Can we trust them?"
Sorin sighed. "You don't take all this very seriously, do you?"
Alistair reflected. "To me, this whole thing is science fiction. And I stopped taking science fiction seriously when I was fifteen. I loved it because it was full of really neat ideas. But I worked out that neat ideas are actually a dime a dozen, and that I was more interested in decent writing."
"So where does that leave us?" Sorin wondered.
"In need of a better script, perhaps?" Alistair ventured. 961. alistairConnor - 3/12/2009 11:55:24 PM Courtney suggested that they should arrange a demonstration of teleportation for the benefit of Dr Ayotunde, and especially, for Dr Kronen.
Sorin was in favour. Dr Ayotunde grinned hugely but offered no opinion. Dr Albu wavered. Alistair was strongly opposed. His ostensible reason was that it would be dangerous, and might attract unwanted attention. But he had at least two other reasons. For one thing, it would require getting up very early. And for another, Alistair was quite pleased with his current situation : they had matched his salary and accorded him generous living and travel expenses; he was in no hurry to see it all come to an ignominious end. Because he didn't believe in this teleportation lark. Not even a little bit.
The phone rang again : it was Halima. Albu made as if to turn on the speaker; then thought better of it, and transferred the call to his office.
When he came out, fifteen minutes later, he looked grim. He told them that there would be no teleportation demonstration. He explained about the arrival of Iancu, and of the murder attempt, without going into detail. And he avoided Sorin's eyes.
Ayotunde said : "We must warn this woman, Davidson, that she is a target! And we must warn Dr Kronen at once! These people may go after him too! He must avoid drawing their attention."
Albu called him at once, and implored him to cancel his TV appearance. 962. alistairConnor - 3/13/2009 1:50:29 AM Gustav Kronen was ready. He'd been through security, makeup, and a briefing from the production assistant : cues she will feed you, hooks you can hand back to her. Surprisingly, this fellow Robin seemed to have familiarised himself with Kronen's work; he felt little hope that the show's host, Sue Hanson, the latest star of the breakfast slot, would have taken the trouble to do so.
She had shaken his hand limply, given him one of those smouldering "let's have sex" looks that are the merest politeness in this high-flying New York milieu. And now she was on air, going through her opening patter, and he had ten minutes to go before his segment.
He found himself ruminating over his experience with Errin Davidson. The train trip had been quite exhilarating : they had been able to discuss their respective work in depth, free from uncomprehending students or journalists, and their intellectual excitement had spilled over into a natural intimacy. No trace remained of her rather stiff and formal professional manner; her girlish laughter came easily, and her awkward adolescent mannerisms charmed and excited Gustav. She had remembered about the bed-and-breakfast when the journey was almost over, and it was, she judged, too late to bother the lady at such an hour. Gustav took this as proof that she wanted him, that her offer of her spare bedroom was no mere politeness, but the pretext for an adventure they both desired.
Arrived at her charming cottage, Kronen took a shower then waited excitedly while Errin took hers. Wearing underpants and a carefully-adjusted half-open dressing gown, he preened himself before the mirror, then stood waiting outside the bathroom door. When he heard the shower stop, he waited a couple of seconds, then opened the door at exactly the same moment that she pulled aside the shower curtain.
And there she was, in all her splendour. Smallish, rather pointed breasts, with big, soft, orange nipples. Perfectly white, silky skin, lightly freckled. Broad hips, with a ginger tuft, much redder than her light auburn hair, not trimmed but naturally sparse; revealing a plump, well-rounded mound of Venus, deeply cleft.
He took in all this in an instant; and only then did he register the expression of shock and dismay on her face. He backed out of the room, babbling something about a toothbrush, and fled to the spare room.
The following morning at breakfast, Errin had been bright, cheery and efficient. Gustav had felt compelled to offer an apology for his vulgar misunderstanding; she stammered "Oh - let's not talk about it please", and they both blushed deeply.
Confounded Englishwomen, thought Gustav angrily. Why can't they show their sexual feelings simply, like the rest of humanity? It made him feel like he was fourteen all over again. 963. alistairConnor - 3/14/2009 10:50:15 AM [No reactions eh? I'm going to have to double down...]
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