by John Ringo
However, while poking around in other features of the con, she found out that there was something called a “con suite,” that it was open twenty-four hours a day and that, glory be, it served food.
A goal. A quest. And, as it turned out, it had been right around the corner from where she’d been talking to Duncan.
Now to find her way back. Where was that map?
* * *
“Eat, you greedy gluts!” a resonant voice boomed as Doris made her way into the con suite.
The suite, a large set of rooms on the second floor of the Hyatt, was crowded. Doris tried very hard not to make contact with any of the people in the room, most of them kids even younger than her, but it was nearly impossible. It seemed that sixty or seventy people must have crowded into the room as soon as the food was put out.
By the door were piles of cups and large containers of ice. Then a drink dispenser with various soft drinks. Arrayed against the far wall, the target of most of the people crowding into the room, was a set of tables piled with hot dogs, buns and a large crock pot of chili.
“Feed your maggoty bellies from the largesse provided by your loving con! Fill your bottomless pits. Feast, feast, you ravenous hordes!”
The voice was produced by a tall, handsome black man wearing an incongruous Star Trek uniform. Parked towards the back of the room, he seemed to subtly bend the attention of the entire room around him. There were several people standing nearby, many of them apparently trying to get his attention, but he appeared to know what most of them were going to say before they said it.
“More rolls, less hot dogs,” he said, sending one of the minions into the throng. “The Coke’s already running low.” Another darted off.
A heavyset blond man came out of the back room bearing a pile of trays. He looked at the gathered group in annoyance.
“These need to go in the other kitchen,” he said, and was roundly ignored.
“I’ll get them,” Doris said. “Where’s the other kitchen?”
“Far room,” the guy said in an aggrieved tone, then went back in the kitchen.
“’Kay.”
Doris carried the trays through the throng, glad to be doing something that would make her unnoticed. Nobody noticed you if you were working.
She found the other kitchen and dropped the trays on the sink, the only open surface. It seemed every other surface was covered by food or the makings thereof.
Instead of getting in line she went back to the group gathered around the black man, wondering if she should help out more. As far as she could tell, the group gathered around the leader was supposed to be working, but nobody seemed to be actually doing anything.
“Peter!” the man boomed, looking at the tables. “Peter!”
“What?” the blond man said, coming back out of the kitchen.
“Where is the coleslaw? There is a distinct lack of coleslawness!”
“That’s because there’s a distinct lack of roominess in this refrigerator,” the blond man said in an aggrieved tone. “It’s in the other kitchen. I’ve been trying to get someone to get it for the last thirty minutes.”
“Peter, Peter, Peter,” the black man said, taking him gently by the shoulder. “If I have told you once I have told you a thousand times. The minions of the con suite are zombies. You must treat them as such.”
He spun in place and grabbed one of the group by the shoulder, turning him to look into his eye.
“Thomas,” he intoned. “Thomas, you shall obey my every command.”
“Yes, master,” the boy replied. “Unless it’s something sexual, in which case, screw you.”
“Of course. Thomas. You shall lurch your way across the room to the far kitchen. There you shall open up the refrigerator—it is the large upright box against the wall. You shall remove from it the coleslaw and place it upon the table at the far end, where the heavyset kid in the Miskatonic University T-shirt with the forlorn expression, probably due to a lack of coleslaw, is standing. Place it upon the table. Remove the coverings from the coleslaw. Stand back lest you are eaten by the ravenous hordes. Then lurch back here for more tasks.”
“Yes, master,” the boy said.
“Do not eat any brains on the way,” the man noted.
“Yes, master,” the grinning boy said and turned, arms out, to lurch into the crowd.
“Lurch faster!” he boomed, then turned back to his assistant. “There, Peter. That is how to control your minions. Mind control is the best control.”
“Got it,” Peter said, frowning.
“I took the trays over to the kitchen,” Doris said, getting a word in edgewise. “Is there anything else you need?”
“And who is this who performs tasks in my con suite yet bears not the lanyard of staff?” the black man asked. “Speak to us, O lady of beauty and worth!”
“Uh,” Doris replied.
“I see thy name is Doris,” the man said. “Shane Gomez is my name, and I am the master of the con suite, the feeder of the hordes, the supplier of provender to the faceless masses. God of Feasting!
“Thank you,” he added, in a much gentler tone. “I appreciate the assistance. And while I’d take you up on your offer to help more, alas, we are required to put anyone on staff through the mandatory training courses where their brains are removed and replaced by straw so that the zombies—the other zombies, that is—don’t eat them. Since your brains are clearly not straw, I must regretfully decline more assistance for your own safety. Besides, right now I’ve got enough people. But feel free to grab a bite to eat before it’s all gone. In fact…”
He took Doris gently by the elbow and walked to the head of the line.
“This is Doris,” he said to the kid who was next up to the table. “She has performed service beyond compare to the good of the con and to the good of the con suite. In doing so, she lost her place in line. I, as master of the con suite, do now place her in front of you. Problems?”
“No problem, Shane,” the tow-haired kid said, sticking out his hand. “Looking good. How you doing this year?”
“Too soon to tell, really,” Shane replied in a much more normal voice as he shook the proferred hand. “But it looks good so far. Take care, man.”
“You too,” the kid replied, waving Doris in front of him. “Eat up. Most of the good stuff will be gone before you know it.”
Doris snagged a hot dog, chips and coleslaw, then went back around to get a drink. She found a corner that wasn’t occupied and filled her stomach, then considered her situation.
Food was covered. She wasn’t sure where she could sleep, though. She didn’t have enough money for a hotel room, and from passing conversations she’d overheard, she knew all the hotels were full, anyway.
Cross that bridge when she got tired. Right now she had to think. With some food on her stomach that was actually a possibility.
She pulled out the program book again and read it more carefully. All the programming track stuff started tomorrow. So she had until then to think about what she wanted to do. Who she wanted to be, as Duncan had put it.
The nice thing about the con, she realized, was the anonymity. Nobody knew her, she didn’t have any defined place, nobody was really paying her any attention at all. She realized in a flash that she could be anybody she wanted to be. She didn’t have to be Dumb-ass Doris. She could create a new Doris.
She looked at the cover of the main program and frowned. She wasn’t sure she could be the person on the cover, but it had a certain allure. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be noticed, didn’t want to be liked. She just didn’t want to be harassed because of it. If you were pretty, guys took pictures of you. They didn’t stuff you in a locker because you’d pissed off their girlfriends.
She could be anybody she wanted to be. So who did she want to be?
CHAPTER TWO
“Ms. Rickels,” Germaine said. “This is Lady Lithram, our local contact.”
Janea had been moved to a safe house not far from the
hospital. The neighborhood was seedy, and Sharice would normally consider the location not particularly secure. However, Germaine had also arranged for four “executive protection specialists” from Atlanta to maintain security around the clock. In addition, there were nurses monitoring Janea at all times and an on-call MD. On the mystic side, the house was owned by Memorial Hospital, a Catholic hospital. Sharice felt mildly out of place only because the defenses of the house, which were formidable, were so clearly Christian.
When Germaine made certain phone calls to certain people, things could get done very quickly.
“Lady Lithram,” Sharice said, shaking her hand. Lady Lithram was stocky, with short blonde hair, blue eyes and a figure that spoke of manual labor. Her hands were roughly calloused. “I’d prefer traditional rites. No skyclad.”
“Of course, madame,” the Wiccan priestess said, nodding. “And may I introduce my husband, Lord Korgan?”
“Lord Korgan,” Sharice said, shaking the man’s hand. Lord Korgan was quite short, slender, and unusually for Wicca, black. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, but had ceremonial robes over his shoulder. “I’m glad to see that both poles are represented.”
“The universe is balance,” Lady Lithram said. “Light and dark, male and female. Only molds don’t need balance, and who loves mold?”
“Indeed,” Sharice said, grinning. “You’re a gardener.”
“We’re landscapers,” Lady Lithram said. “Which mostly means cutting grass to the level it would be shorn by grazers. But I do a nice flowerbed.”
“I suspect they’re better than the owners realize,” Sharice said. “Tell me about the local powers.”
“Very bad,” Lady Lithram said. “Very negative.”
“Negative or dark?” Sharice asked.
“Negative,” Lord Korgan said. “We have walked the dark paths. This is…different.”
“There are at least three long-term demonic residents,” Lady Lithram said. “And a very large body of supporters. Satanists,” she added, nearly spitting.
“They perform their black rites in Chickamauga Park,” Lord Korgan said, tiredly. “We oppose their powers as well as we can, but Wiccans…”
“Don’t fight well,” Sharice said, nodding. “Some, anyway. If we have major demons in the area, why weren’t we called in earlier?”
“They are generational possessors,” Lady Lithram said, frowning. “They live in families, some of the more powerful in the area. Chattanooga is a very strange place, one of the few medium cities that is still ‘owned,’ if you will, by a handful of families. Some of those, not all, are generationally possessed. They keep the city small and manageable because it suits their purposes. Then there are more outside the powerful inner circle, but controlling towns in the area. Again, we do what we can to turn aside their more evil essences, but the Madness killings have been long coming. Something is rising, perhaps by their action, perhaps against their wishes, but definitely linked to them.”
“We’re supposed to be here,” a loud voice boomed from the front of the house. “Check the damned list.”
“Ah, I see Hjalmar is here,” Sharice said, smiling. “Asatru.”
“We can deal,” Lady Lithram said, grinning.
“The reinforcements are here,” Hjalmar said, hefting his ceremonial axe. He was accompanied by another man, short, thin, black-haired and -eyed, and covered in tattoos.
“Hjalmar,” Sharice said, smiling. “Don’t tell me you’re going to join a circle?”
“The sacrifices I make for Frey,” the massive, blond, bearded man said, giving her a spine-cracking bear hug. “But I’m going to stand outside the circle. This is a very nonviolent coven; I’m afraid I would create a disturbance in the Force.”
“You are a disturbance in the Force,” Sharice said. “Drakon.”
The adept shook her hand abruptly and nodded sharply.
“I am here to assist as you need,” he said. “Please continue your conversation.”
“And the Lady-damned Satanists do not help,” Lord Korgan said, sighing again. “We cannot prove it, but we believe they have begun true blood rites using homeless. It’s possible some of the Madness killings are linked to them as well. They certainly perform animal sacrifice. There are times when parts of Chickamauga park are filled with the bodies of dead animals. No black cat is safe. And they try to pass themselves off as pagans!”
“Where we’re going is liable to be dangerous,” Sharice said. “Especially with that sort of spiritual atmosphere. Keep on your toes.”
“Wah-Keng will watch over me, Lady Darkfire,” the adept replied. “I should not require assistance.”
“Hopefully,” Sharice said.
“You’re Lady Darkfire?” Lord Korgan said, his eyes wide.
“Only when I put on a robe,” Sharice replied, grinning. “Until then I’m just Sharice. We need two more. Then we must go to your power center.”
“They’re on their way,” Lady Lithram said. “You know Wiccans…”
“Herding cats is easier,” Sharice said. “Well, let’s get on our game face. We’ve got a soul to save.”
* * *
“Doris, right?”
Doris turned and was surprised to see Folsom Duncan. She had been hanging around the cigar terrace half in anticipation of running across the only group she’d interacted with so far. But none of the people she recognized had been around. But it was still just past sunrise, so that wasn’t surprising.
“Sleep okay?” Duncan asked.
“Didn’t sleep at all,” Doris admitted. She could feel the fatigue tugging at her, but sleep hadn’t even been close to a possibility. She’d spent the whole night in one corner or another watching the congoers. It was more or less how she’d spent high school, watching all the kids socialize around her and never being able to break in.
“That will catch up with you, quick,” Duncan said, yawning. “My sleep schedule is totally off. I was up late and I should still be in bed, but it was not to be. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes,” Doris said, quietly. The con suite had donuts and coffee.
“Well, let me get you a mocha or something,” Duncan said, leading her to the coffee shop in the corner of the hotel. “Given any thought to how you want to spend the con? I’ll admit I probably came on too hard. You can do anything you want, it’s your con, not mine.”
“I gave it a lot of thought,” Doris admitted. She’d had hours to think about it.
“I’m not sure it was worth a lot of thought,” Duncan said, laughing gently.
“No, it was,” Doris said. “I know who I am. I know why I am that way. I’m not sure it’s who I want to be. Or even who I should be. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes,” Duncan admitted. “People come to the Dragon for various reasons. Most come to have fun. Some come to see people, minor celebrities…”
“You?” Doris asked.
“I don’t classify myself that way,” Duncan said. “Some come to interact with friends they’ve made at previous cons. Costumers come to show off their talents. But a few, a special few, if you will, come to find who they truly are. They have been hammered into a certain mold, and it’s a mold with which they are uncomfortable. To the Dragon they are all one. They are all the children of the Dragon: the stormtroopers and the Leias, the Dawn contestants and the guys taking their picture are all equal in the eyes of the Dragon. There’s a song, probably before your time, about masks. The Stranger. We all have a face that we hide away forever, and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone. Some are satin, some are steel, some are silk and some are leather. They’re the faces of the Stranger but we love to try them on.
“What some find from the Dragon is that the face of the Stranger is theirs. In your sleeplessness do you have any idea who you want to be?”
“Yes,” Doris said, pulling out the program book. “You were right. I want to be her. But you see that suit of armor behind her?”
“The
one that she seems to shrink from or possibly draw upon?”
“Yep,” Doris said, looking at the cover. “I want to kick its ass. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of being…who I was. I want to be somebody better. Somebody stronger.”
“Then fortune may have sent you to the right corner of the con,” Duncan said as they reached the head of the line. “When you’re actually ready to start kicking ass, look me up. I have friends who can aid you there. I’ll take a venti mocha, no whip. Doris…?”
* * *
Sharice looked up at the blast of a car horn and darted across the road, making it to the sidewalk safely.
“Odin’s Eye,” Hjalmar muttered. “I think the spell went astray. This does not look like the Moon Paths.”
The threesome had manifested on a city street. On their side was the back of a large building with a vehicle pull-through. Some people were filtering out of doors at the back of the building and heading down to cross the street. On the far side of the street was a large Hilton hotel.
“Dragon*Con,” Drakon said, looking at the marquee for the Hilton. “We’re behind the Marriott. Downtown Atlanta. Wonder which day it is?”
“Dragon*Con, huh?” Hjalmar said. “Always wanted to get there. So are we on the Moon Paths or not? Or did we shift in space and time?”
“It’s the Moon Paths,” Sharice said. “I think it’s a metaphorical representation. An interesting one. I’m not sure who is generating the metaphor. It might be Janea. If so, I’d like to know why.”
“May be hard to find her,” Drakon pointed out as a statuesque redhead in high heels and a schoolgirl outfit walked past. “With the Dawn contest, there are about six thousand redheads at Dragon*Con.”
“Janea stands out in any sort of crowd,” Sharice said, biting her lip. “But that’s not the tough part. We need to figure out the rules of this place. Let’s go find someplace to sit down and consider.”
* * *
The hotel was already a bit crowded, but they found a comfortable conversation set of chairs and a table on the main floor of the hotel.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sharice said.