by Rachel Ford
Nance loved it, though. They were seated near the front, and she nudged him when the panel turned to Star Trek. One of the presenters gestured at them and said, “We’ve got some Trekkies right up front here. Which is fitting, since Trek has always been on the forefront of bringing the conversation of ethics out of textbooks and academy halls into people’s living rooms.”
“Did you see that?” she gushed after the program wrapped up and they milled out of the room. “Eugene Miller noticed our cosplay.”
The taxman didn’t know Eugene Miller from Adam, and told her as much.
“Babe.” She was flabbergasted. “He’s the director of half the MDC universe movies. Not least of all, Fire Fell.”
“Oh,” he declared. “Well, that’s it. We’ve peaked. It can’t get better than that. We might as well go home.”
The next program was a little more interesting to Alfred, but not much. It was about the predictive history of sci-fi, and it detailed how science fiction had envisioned everything from space travel to automatic doors before they were a reality. Here, again, Star Trek was mentioned frequently, and though this time they didn’t receive any callouts from the stage, Nancy grinned with each mention.
The third session on their agenda did make him smile, though, and he realized she’d chosen it specifically with him in mind. It was entitled “UFOs and Science Fiction: how the mythos influences fiction, and fiction influences the mythos.” This time, when it got to Star Trek and Spock, he nudged her.
He did thoroughly enjoy that one, and even – though he’d never dare tell Nancy, for fear of how much she’d read into it – felt a mild curiosity about some of the shows and episodes mentioned.
“Alright,” she said as they exited the conference room, “should we get lunch?”
He was starting to get hungry, and so he nodded.
“Let’s try somewhere else, though,” she suggested. “Not super crazy about the café food.”
“Or service,” he grumbled.
She laughed. “I scoped out a few places this morning. Here.” She pulled out her phone. “Let me know what you…oh, looks like we got some comments on our costumes.” She grinned, reading through them, and then handed the phone to Alfred.
Some was an understatement. Nancy’s online profile was, he realized, significantly more developed than his own. The picture had only been up for a few hours, and already it had over seventy reactions and fifty-some comments. The responses were mostly along the lines of “looking good” and “nice job.” Now and then he’d recognize a name as belonging to one of their coworkers. He didn’t quite understand interacting with coworkers on social media. It seemed to him that coworkers were inescapable as it was, for the majority of one’s life; unless they were a genuine friend, why would anyone extend the acquaintance beyond its already extensive limits?
He was about half way through the list of comments when he gaped. “You’re friends with Caspersen?” he wondered, aghast.
“Of course.”
“That means she saw me in this outfit.”
It was an obvious statement, since the director had left a comment on Nancy’s profile that read, “You both look like you stepped straight off set. Nice job!”
Nance laughed. “Of course. But you look amazing.”
He groaned. “I’m not even worried about how I look. Just, if she sees me in costume here, she’s going to expect me to wear one to the Halloween party this year.”
“Oh no. Not that,” she teased.
He was about to hand back the phone when another post caught his eye. It was accompanied by a profile picture of a brown-eyed man, smiling awkwardly in brightly colored superhero getup. It was from Randy Barret, and it read, “Great job! Me and Dave are here too. You guys staying at the convention center?”
Alfred felt his heart sink when he saw that Nance had replied, “Awesome! We are. All the way up on floor twelve lol. What about you guys?”
“We didn’t get reservations in time. We’re about two blocks down, at The Rivers. Haven’t talked to you in ages. We should do a couple’s dinner one of these nights, if you guys aren’t booked.”
“We should! (And we’re not, we’ve been winging it as far as meals go).”
The taxman cleared his throat as he finished the exchange. “You’re…uh…friends with Randy Barret?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“A little.”
Nancy nodded. “When I worked at the central office, before my promotion, we talked a lot.”
Sugar cookies. So not only did their assassin know where they were staying and on what floor, he also knew Nance personally. Alfred remembered Josh’s words from the previous night, that they had to bring her up to speed on what was going on; and for half a second, he wondered if he shouldn’t just tell her everything, right there and then.
But she was smiling and happy, and the idea of spoiling that happiness – much less, owning up to keeping her in the dark – made him hesitate.
“Anyway,” she was saying, “here’s the list of restaurants around here that look good. Anything stand out to you?”
He took the phone again, scrolling absently through the list she’d proffered. He barely saw the options, though. His mind was still on Randy Barret. The assassin knew where they were staying now, but the reverse was also true: Alfred knew where he was staying. He also knew that Barret was dressed in some kind of superhero costume. That was all information he needed to get to Josh, as soon as possible. But, of course, he couldn’t openly text the marine without risking Nancy overseeing it.
“The Greek place looks good.”
She nodded. “Alright. Georgiou’s it is, then.”
Chapter Sixteen
Georgiou’s was quite crowded when they arrived. Alfred grabbed a table in the back – one of the few still open – while Nancy ordered. It was his first opportunity away from her side, and he wasted no time relaying his newfound intel to Josh, along with Barret’s latest, in-costume profile picture.
“He’s dressed as Swell Dude. Great. There’s only a million other Swell Dudes at MarvelousCon.”
“But we know where he’s staying now, too.”
“Yeah. Still doesn’t help us track him during the day, though.”
That was a fair point. “I’ll keep my eyes open for him too.”
Josh didn’t say anything more, and Alfred put the phone away as he saw Nancy heading in his direction. “Food’ll be out in twenty minutes or so,” she said.
He nodded. “Alright, Commander, where are we headed after this?”
“Well, there’s a panel I want to get to at two, about Marvelous Comics. But I had left a block open for pretty much whatever: exhibits, tabletop gaming stations, whatever we felt like.”
“Oh. Well, what do you want to do?”
“Well, I have to head back to the exhibits.”
“Why?”
“I forgot something last night.”
“Oh.”
“You should probably check out the gaming stations.”
He frowned. “Gaming stations? Why not go with you?”
She grinned. “Because you can’t see what I buy. Not yet.”
His frown, though, deepened. “I don’t want to split up. How will I find you again, in these crowds?” That, of course, wasn’t his real concern. His real concern was that someone else – Randy Barret – would find her while he was stuck at a tabletop gaming station.
Nancy laughed, until she saw that his angst was real. “Babe, I’m just going to the exhibit hall. And we can always call, or text, if we’re having trouble finding each other.”
“I know…I just…” He fidgeted, his mind racing. He couldn’t tell her the truth – he’d already decided that was out – but he didn’t have a good reason either.
“Oh.” Her expression softened, and she took his hand. “The crowds?”
He blinked. “Umm…yeah?”
She smiled tenderly. “I forgot about that. Sorry, babe. Of course you can come
with me. Just, no peaking. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Their meal arrived on schedule, and Nancy was quiet as she ate. She’d gotten through half her gyro when she set it down and gazed at him. “Alfred?”
“Yeah?” he said through half a mouthful.
“Are you doing okay?”
“What?”
“I didn’t…well, I didn’t realize this crowds thing was that big of a deal to you. I knew you didn’t like them, but I thought it was more a passing discomfort than…well, anything more serious.” Her brow was creased, and she seemed genuinely troubled. “Are you all right here?”
Alfred felt a pang. Of course he was all right. He didn’t care for crowds, but only because he didn’t in general care for people. They were noisome, annoying and usually in the way. Crowds, being composed of many people together, were just that much more distasteful. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Because if you’re not…we don’t have to stay.” He began to protest, but she interrupted, “No, babe, I mean it. I don’t want you to be miserable.”
“Oh Nance, crowds don’t bother me like that. I just…it’s a hell of a lot of people, and I don’t want us stuck trying to find each other in that kind of chaos.”
She scrutinized his face, as if trying to decide if he was telling the truth. “Are you sure?”
He squeezed her hand. “Completely.”
In a minute, the lines on her forehead relaxed. “Alright. But if it gets to be a problem, promise me you’ll let me know?”
They headed back after lunch, and Alfred tried not to consider what a fool he was. He couldn’t escape the realization, though, that his efforts only seemed to expand the hole he’d dug for himself when he’d first hid the truth from Nance.
She was walking with an arm around him, and he could tell she was still concerned. His entire motive in concealing the murderer from her had been so she could enjoy her time; and now she was worrying that she’d not simply asked him to step a little out of his comfort zone but subjected him to anxieties he didn’t even feel.
Fudge muffins. Somehow, he’d made a mess of things again. “Hey,” he said after a space, “what’s the rest of our day look like again?”
“There’s a reveal on the upcoming MDC movies at three-thirty. And I need to get our names in the autograph drawing for tomorrow.”
“Autograph drawing?”
“Yeah, to have a shot at getting pictures and autographs with the Fire Fell crew.”
“Oh.”
“And then there’s a preview of the next Station 49 game at five.”
Alfred rolled his eyes. “That’s that stupid space marine game you play, isn’t it?”
She grinned. “It’s not stupid. But yes.”
“There’s another one coming out? Aren’t there like ten already?”
“This is the eighth. But it’s a new storyline, with mostly new characters. And it takes place on a new station.”
He shook his head. “Oh Nance. It’s just dolls for grownups.”
“Congratulations,” she said, nudging him playfully. “Now you sound like my mom.”
“She must be a smart woman.”
“She is. But, I’m firmly convinced, living in the wrong century. Like you.”
Alfred smiled. “Well,” he said, “I was the one who sent us back in time, remember?”
“Yeah. Fittingly, among the dinosaurs.”
They’d reached the exhibit hall now, and Nance said, “Okay, can you wait here?” He glanced around nervously, scanning the crowd for any deadly incarnations of Swell Dude. She hastened to add, pointing to a stall a little way down the makeshift thoroughfare, “I’m just going over there. But you can’t look. Remember: you promised.”
“Alright, alright,” he grumbled.
“Good,” she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him. “I’ll be right back.”
Alfred took the opportunity afforded by her absence to check his phone. He had no messages from Josh, so he pulled up Nancy’s profile picture, and the comments under it.
There was nothing new from Randy Barret, but there was a comment from – of all people – Justin Lyon. It read, “Nice. Looks like Freddie’s having a blast.”
Alfred frowned. It was an innocuous message on the face of it, but this was Justin, after all. And not typical Justin; this was Justin after being chewed out.
The taxman scrolled up to glance at the picture. He was smiling, but the longer he stared, the more he noticed a stiffness in his expression.
His frown deepened, and he went back to the comment to reread it. This time, he could practically hear it in Lyon’s voice, dripping sarcasm. Looks like Freddie’s having a blast.
He tapped Justin’s name to bring up his profile. There was nothing like passive aggressiveness to spawn a little impromptu cyberstalking. He surveyed the other man’s profile picture, and the confident grin – almost sneer – that spread across his features. He scrolled down.
Justin had three new posts up. The first was about sports, and he scrolled past. The next, though, caught his eye. It was an image overlaid with text, saying only, “Political correctness is cancer.”
He scrolled to the next post. This was a link, declaring, “Political correctness is destroying the American workplace”.
The posts from the beginning of the week were in the same vein. Starting Monday around three o’clock – shortly after his conversation with Caspersen – Justin’s page had been flooded with lamentations about people who couldn’t handle the truth, politically correct tyranny, and intellectual cowardice.
Prior to Monday at three o’clock, Alfred noted with a grin, it was nothing more than a hodgepodge of sports memes, bad jokes, and self-congratulatory statuses.
Alfred laughed out loud and handed Nancy the phone as soon as she returned. “I don’t think Justin took his chat with Caspersen well,” he smirked.
Nancy shifted the parcel she was holding and read, in turns frowning and groaning. “Oh my. That’s quite a temper tantrum. I’m glad we’re out of the office.”
The taxman laughed. “Yup.” Then, he glanced at the package she held. It was wrapped in several plastic bags, and while he couldn’t determine much else, he could see that it was a rectangular box. “Did you get what you needed, though?”
She nodded. “All done.”
“So why can’t I see what it is?” he wondered.
“It’s a surprise.”
“It’d be a surprise now: I don’t know what it is.”
She laughed. “Yes, but it’s not your birthday now, either.”
“You mean, I have to wait until my birthday?”
“That’s usually how birthday surprises go…”
“That’s not fair. You can’t get a present in front of my face and not let me know what it is.”
“Watch me,” she grinned.
“You know, a real woman wouldn’t do that,” he grinned. “A traditional woman wouldn’t make her boyfriend suffer.”
Nancy groaned. “Oh God.”
Chapter Seventeen
Alfred sighed. He was waiting on a divan in a niche outside the restrooms. Nancy had joined the line five minutes ago and had only just moved out of sight. His eyes now were resting on her purchase, his birthday present. He wasn’t going to look inside the bag, of course. That would be cheating. But if he picked up any external clues that might tell him what lay inside, that, he thought, would be perfectly fair.
“Alfred!” It was Nancy, standing in the hall.
“Babe?” He glanced back at the line, surprised to see her back so quickly. She’d only just stepped around the corner, and the glacial pace of the line so far had convinced him that it would be awhile yet. How she was back – much less how she’d gotten past him without his notice – baffled the taxman.
She, meanwhile, crossed the space between them, and threw her arms around him. “Oh my God, Alfred.” She held his face in her hands and kissed him with an urgency that was at once gratifying
and mystifying.
“Nance,” he said when she finished, “what’s going on?”
She wrapped her arms around him, though, saying, “Oh thank God.”
Now he was really alarmed. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
She drew back to look at him. “Alfred, I…it’s going to sound crazy, but…I’m from the future. From tonight.”
The taxman blinked. “What?”
“I know it sounds nuts. But it’s true.” She pulled a device – the device – out of an oversized pocket in her uniform.
“Wait,” he said, “what are you doing with that?” He reached into his own trouser pocket. Sure enough, the spacetime field generator was there. He withdrew it slowly, eyes moving between Nancy and the two devices. “What the hell?”
“Listen to me, Alfred,” she said. “I took it off your body.”
“My body? Wait…you mean…I’m dead in the future?”
She nodded. “Someone stabbed you, Alfred. We were at the party – the one tonight, after the costume contest. You went to the bathroom, and someone stabbed you.” She shook her head. “When you didn’t come back, and you didn’t answer your texts, I got worried. I asked someone to look for you. And they found you…babe, you were almost dead when I got to you. And all you said was ‘Swell Dude.’”
“Swell Dude?” He frowned. “Like, the superhero? Those were my last words?” He couldn’t imagine a less impressive way to die, with the name of a comic book hero on his lips.
She nodded. “I think that’s who killed you, Alfred. Someone dressed as Swell Dude.”
“Sugar cookies. Randy Barret.”
“Barret?”
“Nevermind. Listen, Nance, you say this happened at the party tonight?”
“Yes.” She clutched his arm. “Listen, babe, you can’t go to that. Promise me.”
He nodded. “I promise.” Then, he frowned. “You used the device, though, Nance. To warn me?”
She ran her fingers across his forehead, and down his cheek, and her eyes welled with tears. “Of course I did, babe. I don’t care what we said: I couldn’t let you die. Promise me, Alfred: promise me you won’t go.”