by Bill Fawcett
“I was only pretending to threaten them.”
“I was only pretending to correct you,” said Bellwether with a shrug that knocked four stage assistants into the sixth row of the audience.
Conan turned toward the judges. “Can I get a ruling on what just happened, please? I would like for Skin to be disqualified.”
“For what?” asked Anne.
“For melting my sword and ruining my presentation.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” said Anne. “You’re standing there in nothing but a loincloth and a melted sword, and you want us to disqualify a ten-ton fire-breathing dragon that’s standing forty feet away. Is that correct?”
“11.237 tons,” interjected Bellwether gently.
“Well, it made a lot of sense before you summarized it,” said Conan petulantly. He turned to Bellwether. “And that’s a dumb costume, and an even dumber name!”
Another flame shot out of the dragon’s mouth, incinerating Conan’s loincloth and exposing his ... ah ... shortcomings for the entire audience to see. He ran off, stage left, down the stairs, and totally out of this story, though I’m told he’s due to make a comeback in Eric Flint’s Foundation and Stays, yet another saga in the Foundation series.
The competition got back on track, with three Tarzans (100, 350, and 400 pounds), two Red Sonjas (83 and 382 pounds), the Hulk (4 feet 11 inches) and other equally captivating costumes. Finally it was over, and the judges withdrew to deliberate.
It didn’t take long. In less than five minutes they had returned, and handed their decision to David Drake, who read it, looked at them like they had finally lost their wits, shrugged, and announced that the prizes for Most Authentic, Most Legs, Most Green, Most Combustible, and Best in Show were all awarded to Bellwether.
“The prizes include free passage to next year’s DragonCon,” David announced, “as well as a complimentary suite with asbestos wallpaper. Have you anything to say, Skin?”
Bellwether got out the words “I would like to thank my—” when an orchestra started playing and they cut to commercial. (It was a demonstration about why crosses had no power against vampires in Jewish neighborhoods, and was sponsored by a manufacturer of Stars of David.)
Finally the masquerade was over, and Bellwether hung around backstage, graciously accepting a victory kiss from Anne.
David Weber came up to congratulate the dragon. “By the way, have you decided what sex to be yet?”
“No, I’m still basking in the glow of winning, even if it’s not the Pan-Galactic Dragon Show,” said Bellwether. “But I’m sure I’ll decide before I come back next year. After all, there are only seven sexes to choose from.”
“Seven?” said David, his eyes widening with interest. “Where is this planet of yours?”
“Don’t tell him,” cautioned Eric Flint. “We seven-sexed dragons have to organize first.”
“BUT in a year I’ll be away at college,” Dylan Rhys-Kayes reminded his mother over the breakfast table. He was doing his best to sound sensible, not whiney, not too much like a disappointed kid. “I’Il have to figure out how to handle myself then, won’t I? So why not let me give this a try?”
“Atlanta is a long way from Toronto, Dylan, to be off on your own,” said his mother, Arian, her Welsh accent still strong after fifteen years in Canada. “If anything should happen ...”
“Then I’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t,” he said, wishing he could ease the worry from her eyes. “Look, Ma, they invited me. They want to showcase my videos, and have me participate on two panels, and that could mean some contacts that will help me out in the future. I could end up paying more of my way to college than we expected, and have a really good job at the end of it.” He took his mug of black coffee and drank it down, painfully aware of the broken nails on his left hand—nails he could not remember breaking. “I’ll be careful. I’ve got every reason to be.”
“Well enough,” she said, without a trace of conviction. “But in the middle of an exciting convention, don’t you think it would be easy to forget about the risks?”
“If things get touchy, I’ll head off for the night, somewhere away from the convention.” He leaned forward, looking straight into her worried eyes. “I’m staying at a b&b, single room. I’ve got my prescriptions. But just in case, there’s open country around Atlanta. I’ve checked. If I have to, I can find some isolation and walk off my stress.”
His mother picked at the last of her French toast. “I just wish one of your friends were going with you. Seventeen and all alone in Georgia.”
“Next year, I’ll be eighteen and all alone in Los Angeles,” he pointed out. He stood up and took his mug to the sink. Tall and lanky, he often looked as if he had forgotten to take the hanger out of his jacket before he put it on; his hair was a kind of light-brown that shone like pewter, his face was angular, his hands and feet were long, and he had the slightly unfinished appearance of many teen-agers. “You’re gonna be late to work, Ma,” he said as he put the dishes in the sink to soak.
“You, too, Dylan,” Arian said, pushing her chair back from the table.
“Everything’ll be fine, Ma,” he said, still hoping to assuage her worry. “With thirty thousand attending, who’s gonna notice me? Even if I fall asleep over dinner, who’ll pay any attention in such a mob?”
Arian was not so sanguine as her son. “That’s thirty thousand witnesses.”
“To a special effect; that’s what they’re going to think in a place like that, assuming it happens at all; I’m going to make sure it doesn’t,” he said, running the water and adding a little detergent.
“You hope,” she said.
“Dad held down a job for two decades and no one ever suspected he had a problem,” Dylan reminded her.
“Not no one, but he was very careful, which is what you need to be,” she corrected him. “Tell you what, Dylan,” she went on as she brought her breakfast dishes to him, “I’ll think about it today and let you know this evening what I’ve decided.”
“It won’t cost you anything. My job’Il give me enough for the trip.” For most of the school year, the job was part-time, but now, during Easter vacation, it was as full-time as hers, and would be so throughout the summer. “I won’t do anything extravagant.”
“That money is for college,” she reminded him, twitching her russet, wool-blend duster to hang smoothly over her orchid turtleneck and tan slacks. “I don’t want you blowing it all on a weekend in Georgia.”
“Of course I wouldn’t take all my savings,” he assured her. “But I don’t expect you to pay for it, either. Or Uncle Perry.”
There was a trace of disappointment in her tired features. “I realize that, Dylan. It’s not the money—or not only the money—that concerns me, and you know it.” She took hold of his sleeve so he would face her. “This is a major step. You need to think about what you’re doing.”
“I know, Ma. But I gotta make a try at being out on my own eventually, and better to have a little experience before I go to college.”
Her face lost some of its grimness. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry to be on your case like this, but I’m worried about you. I don’t want you risking your whole future for a single long weekend.”
Dylan shook his head. “Yeah, Ma, I know.”
“Will there be a full moon while you’re in Atlanta?” A frown puckered her brows.
“New one.” He tried to smile without strain. “They have a parade.”
“Oh, mercy upon us.” She stepped back. “A parade!”
* * *
“Somebody messed up the Spartan Warrior 4 disk,” said Theo Westin as Dylan came through the employees entrance into the electronic services store on Queen Street where he worked. Theo was the assistant manager, a thirty-ish geek with keen hazel eyes and hair so furiously ringletted that he appeared to have just stuck his finger
in a light-socket.
“I’Il get on it. Probably trying to change something they didn’t like, or add something they liked better. Amateurs.” He removed his raincoat and hung it on a hook near the door. “Who else is coming in this morning?”
“Just you and me holding the fort until lunch; Pat’s out front with the walk-ins and phones,” said Theo. “Casey’s installing a new system for Professor Hazeltine since Easter break means an empty office, Annamarie’s out at Sunlight Power doing their upgrade. Terry’s at the dentist. Walter won’t be in until two; he’s picking his parents up at the airport—more Easter. And Jenna’s on vacation. Poor girl’s suffering in Bermuda.” He pointed to the alcove where coffee brewers, a refrigerator, and a microwave waited on a counter next to a small, round table with three chairs. “You want some caffeine to jump-start the morning?”
“Already had some; don’t want to stunt my growth,” said Dylan, making for his work-station after taking the Spartan Warrior 4 from Theo. His east-facing window filled his cubicle with light.
“Speaking of vacation, you already got things straightened out with your mom about Atlanta? Or is she still worried about you being out on your own? Hey, it’s only b’cause she loves you.” He had sat down in his work-station, but gave little attention to the screen in front of him, his curiosity getting the better of him. “I really hope you get to go.”
“We’re working it out,” he said a bit distantly, listening to the hum of his machine.
“She’s gonna say yes, isn’t she?” Theo persisted a couple seconds later. “It’s a big chance.”
“I sure hope so; I’ve already told DragonCon that I’m going to be there,” Dylan answered, and adjusted the angle of his screen to eliminate the window-glare from its surface.
“Think it would help if I talked to her? Explained about your project? Maybe Annamarie could talk to her, too, you know: woman to woman. I’m part of your video—maybe I could make her see what an opportunity this is, for all of us,” he offered. “I know how well you take care of yourself. It’s not as if you’re gonna die there. You’re gonna open a lot of doors.”
“I don’t know; if you put it to her that way, she may refuse completely. But I’ll keep you in mind; and I’ll show you the next segment once I get the script in order,” Dylan assured him as he concentrated on Spartan Warrior 4.
* * *
Uncle Perry was softer and rounder than Dylan’s dad had been, and perhaps three inches shorter, but there was a strong family resemblance: a suggestion of a lantern-jaw, straight brows, long nose, and the same prominent shoulders that Dylan had inherited. At fifty-one, Perry Rhys-Kayes was a successful forensic geneticist with clients all over Canada and the upper Midwest. He sipped at his single-malt whiskey and studied his nephew. “Tell me how you plan to handle the narcolepsy again.”
Dylan sighed. “I’Il be careful to take my meds. If there is trouble, I’ll get out of the city, away from anything that could add to the problem. I’ll keep stress down as much as I can, I’ll stay away from high sugar in my diet, and I’ll try not to get really tired.”
Perry nodded. “A good plan. But you don’t want to have to run off at the last minute if you feel an episode coming on. That could lead to real problems for you. Confusion and crowds can mean difficulties. You don’t want to collapse in public.”
“I know that,” said Dylan, getting up from his chair and pacing the length of Perry’s wood-paneled study.
“How do you plan to take care of yourself when you recover?” Perry was calm but his eyes were keen; he focused all his attention on his nephew.
“You mean if I have an episode and have to recover, don’t you?” Dylan challenged.
“I guess I do,” Perry said. “You’re right. You may not have an episode, after all. And it’s not as if you don’t know how to deal with the aftermath.”
“You mean that I shouldn’t go running around all hyper, come morning? Or have an episode in the morning and spend half the time scarping about, then crash for the afternoon and evening? Assuming I go out for the night and don’t return to normal until the next day, the way I usually do? I’ll have to do my best to improvise, if it comes to that. I know when my presentation is—2:00 to 2:30 p.m. —and I’ll make sure to get a nap before it’s scheduled; a real nap, with my meds, not an episode. One panel is at 10:00 a.m., the other at 3:30 in the afternoon. All good times, when I’ll be fed and rested and ready.” He put his glass of light beer on the nearest bookshelf and made a gesture of exasperation.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Perry said to his nephew. “Look what happened to your father, Dylan. I wouldn’t want anything of the sort to happen to you.”
Dylan shuddered in spite of himself. “Neither do I.”
“And Atlanta! The CDC would find you fascinating.”
“They’ve seen narcolepsy before,” Dylan observed.
“Not like yours, they haven’t. Your kind—with somnambulism and amnesia accompanying the narcolepsy—is extremely rare: fewer than ten percent of narcoleptics have it. Ambien has nothing on it. Rarity is a good part of the CDC’s stock in trade. They’d like it better if you had something contagious, but your kind of neurological glitch would set them slavering. I’ve worked with some of those fellows before, and you wouldn’t like to fall into their hands, believe me.”
“Oh, I do,” said Dylan, trying not to think of his late father, a prisoner in all but name in the hands of the Europeans for six years before he died. “At least I won’t be in transit during the full moon. Think what could happen with airport security if I had an episode.” He intended to be funny, but saw in his uncle’s face the very alarm he was seeking to quell.
“You believe you’d be at increased risk of an episode,” said Perry.
“And that’s the least of it.” He took a little sip of beer. “If the moon were going to be full, I might share Ma’s worries. But a new moon is a piece of cake. Unless I get fatigued, or stressed—I know, I know.”
“This whole full moon thing may be the result of your expectations, not anything specifically associated with the moon itself, or your condition. Arian may subscribe to the idea, but the statistics don’t support the mythology.” He said it as if he had little interest in the matter, but the angle of his brows gave him away.
“Look, Uncle Perry, I know the full moon makes a difference. I can feel it. It has since all this started. Psychosomatic or not, full moons up the chance of an episode. Dad told me about the full moon—it affected him, too.” He continued to wander around the study. “You know I’ll keep my mouth shut—I won’t tell everyone ‘Hey, I sometimes just fall asleep for no reason and I sometimes do weird things while I’m asleep, like run around with all my clothes off’—and I won’t expose myself to anything too risky that might trigger an episode. I’d be really stupid to do that. But, Uncle Perry, I need to get out there, to learn how to handle myself during public presentations, to make sure I can take care of myself in the real world without you and Ma for backup. I want to be ready for college next year.”
“I understand that, and I sympathize,” said Perry. “But you can’t blame Arian and me for being concerned.”
“Probably not,” Dylan allowed.
“I told your Ma I’d get you a cell phone with extended range, so you can keep in touch.”
“You mean report in, don’t you?” Dylan asked.
“I don’t. Your mother does,” said Perry, giving Dylan a rueful chuckle. “Don’t fash yourself about it, just think of it as another layer of protection. You can work out a schedule to call in to Arian. That would make her much less anxious.”
“Unless I miss a call by five minutes,” said Dylan.
Perry used his most rational tone. “Dylan, think about it from your mother’s side: she doesn’t want you to get into trouble. She’s not being unreasonable. You aren’t of legal age. You’re traveling a signifi
cant distance alone for the first time. You’ll be in a foreign country.”
“All right,” muttered Dylan, knowing he was secretly relieved to know he would have the cell phone if he needed it.
There was an uncomfortable silence for the better part of a minute, and then Perry looked up at Dylan. “Do you think you could show me your videos?”
“Uncle Perry—”
“I’d like to see what you’ve done.”
Dylan shrugged. “If you’d like, but I don’t think they’re your cup of tea, Uncle Perry.”
“Probably not,” he concurred. “But I’d like to know what kind of work you’re doing. Would you show me? Or at least tell me about the one that got you the invitation to DragonCon?”
This was too good an opportunity to turn down. “Well, it’s half live-action and half computer animation,” Dylan began, trying to figure out how to explain his videos to his uncle. “The story-line is kind of contemporary with a lot of fantasy elements. I guess you’d call it surrealistic.”
“What’s it about?”
Dylan dropped into the antique over-stuffed chair and stared up at the handsome ceiling. “Well, there’s a guy—Brian McKay—who’s being haunted by various figures from what might be the past or could be another dimension. Brian is an emergency medical tech, about twenty-five, who sometimes gets into dangerous situations, which is when the ghosts or other-dimensional beings kick in. Sometimes they help, sometimes they make things worse, but Brian can’t ignore them. Once in a while he slips into the ghosts’ worlds and then he really gets confused. It gets in the way of his life a lot, too. He’s got a girlfriend—Amy Xi. She knows a little about the ghosts but she doesn’t really believe in them, and that kind of messes up their relationship from time to time. She doesn’t think he’s a freak, but she does think he’s kind of weird. I’m taking the first three adventures with me and I’m working on a couple more.”