Here Be Dragons

by Bill Fawcett

  I stopped, my eyes goggling as a large group of people dressed in clown suits entered the room. My security senses came on alert. “Attack of the clowns17?”

  “Clones,” my partner said dismissively, handing over her money to the eager seller.

  I kept searching the crowd, and spotting a guy on stilts, I cried, “Look! Skywalker!18”

  My partner glanced toward him, awed at the special rig he wore which gave his steps an extra spring-like floating affect, and murmured appreciatively, “When gravity fails.19”

  Unfortunately, at that point, one of the cleverly hidden rubber bands that provided the spring snapped, slapping the stilter hard in the thigh and eliciting a loud curse.

  “The force is strong with him20,” I muttered, shaking my head in sympathy.

  Overhead, the lights flickered once more and we looked at each other, startled.

  “Come on, come on21,” I urged my partner. We had not gone more than a few steps when we both stopped, our jaws agape in awe at a brilliant display of large spheres colored like the planets of the solar system.

  My partner reached for the large, earth-like sphere and asked the red-haired seller, “How much for just the planet22?”

  I grabbed it out of her hand and placed it back, telling her in my best Yoda voice, “Forbidden: planet.23”

  Beside the seller was a pretty young girl who playing a hand-held video game. I could see the title: Harlie. She played for a while. When Harlie was won24, she looked around for something else to do. She started looking in the cash box longingly, like she wanted to play with the money. Her badge read: Maggie. My partner noticed and pointed, saying, “Pretty Maggie, money eyes.25’”

  Seeing how hard it was for her to resist further temptation and remembering our jobs, I tugged her out of the Exhibitor’s hall towards Gaming. At the exit we joined the throng filling up the hallway.

  “Space, the final frontier26,” my partner intoned but I barely heard her, peering back as I was into the Exhibitor’s Hall, declaiming, “Thieves’ World.27”

  And we wended our way into Gaming, my headset beeped and I was advised by the head of security to keep an eye out for a small person dressed as a unicorn, seen in the company of a very old man.

  “Mything persons,28’” I told my partner as I pointed to my headset and filled her in on the description.

  “Is she carrying a sword or a wand?” my partner asked. There were several little girls wandering around, looking a lot alike, dressed in different costumes.

  “A dagger,” I told her.

  “Ah,” she murmured knowingly as she glanced around the hallway, “the warrior’s apprentice.29”

  “Yeah, they’ve already seen the sorcerer’s apprentice,” I said, “and he’s not with her.”

  As we entered Gaming, my partner pointed out some women dressed in Greek garb, serving a man dressed as Dionysus, intoning with a raised eyebrow, “Ethos of Athens?30”

  “I think you’ve got that wrong,” I told her, my brain spinning. “I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be someone ‘of Athos’.”

  With a disapproving glare, she let it slide, turning instead to a group of card players huddled over a table. One was gathering in his winnings, crowing, “Ace of Aces!31”

  One of the losers, a pear-shaped man, was shaking his head, muttering sourly, “Wild cards!32”

  The third was looking at his own hand disgustedly. “Bloody Jack!33”

  A loud commotion further inside attracted our attention and it was a moment before my partner spotted it and pointed, “See! Three P.O.!34”

  I suppose she should have said “pissed-offs” but hers was the superior way35.

  The three were grouped over another table. One was very young and short, the other of middling size and the third was tall and hairy.

  The young one had the manual in his hand and was pointing at it, declaring loudly, “Are two D2!36”

  The tall hairy guy growled. My partner and I exchanged glances and then she started forward, ready to disrupt the dispute. I wondered if maybe I should go with her, so I offered, “Han?”

  “Solo!37” she declared, holding a hand upright behind her, ordering me to stay put. She oozed the charm over the three of them and they were shortly transfixed, in awe of her. With a smile and a pleasant wave, she left them, telling me, “Phantom menace.38”

  So, also, was a group of four arguing vociferously as they played: a father, son, daughter, and mother. I took a quick look at the game they were playing and told Han knowingly, “Family Business.39”

  * * *

  By about now, I’m sure you’re all curious as to how we got this wonderful gig. I mean, attending DragonCon year in, year out, for free is the fantasy of many.

  Well, I’ll tell you: we don’t know.

  Han (in preference to Hannah) has this theory that it was a little girl who tried a curse that worked; I have this theory that it was the little boy who was showing off his phaser—“It really works!”

  What we do know is this: we’re here for set-up, we’re here for tear-down and everything in between. And after? There is no after: we’re here from set-up through to tear-down and then we start over, with a new con.

  We figure we’ve been through about twenty DragonCons so far and we’re always hoping that the next one will be our con-the one where we met the little girl and the little boy.

  One thing we’re certain of—if we want to get out of this time warp, we’ve got to be certain that nothing interferes with all the DragonCons that have gone before—or we’ll never get back to our own.

  So Han and I walk the nights and guard the con. Han had more right than I: her old job was policeman.

  * * *

  We gave up on gaming and headed out to the main hotel, the Hyatt. Out back, as usual, were several smokers. As we passed, one lit up and I muttered, “Firestarter.40”

  Before Han could react to that, someone flicked another lighter near a candle, causing Han to intone, “Something wicked this way comes.41”

  Fortunately, a girl with black faerie wings artfully decorated along the edge with small lights walked by, and I pointed, “Nightwings.42”

  I trudged on into the ballroom concourse, determined to find our missing persons and doing my best to pretend that I hadn’t heard her.

  Just as I got near the escalator, I saw a streak of something small and white dart on, followed immediately by an old man who reached for her but failed to grab her.

  “Han!” I cried, pointing toward the pair but by the time I turned around, they were already several people in front of me. Han hoofed it over and we both got on, anxiously eyeing the pair as they reached the top of the escalator.

  Apparently, from the commotion ahead, the little girl bowled over some people as she struggled to slip from the old man’s grasp.

  We got there as the old man broke out of the worst of the throng only to find himself cornered in the center of a group of the 501st Imperial Storm Trooper Battalion.

  “The tactics of mistake43,” I said, shaking my head triumphantly as Han came up beside me.

  “What?” one of the stormtroopers asked.

  “Soldier,” Han intoned, with a glance my way, “Ask Not.44”

  I reached for the old man but he turned, one hand outstretched toward where we’d last seen the little girl.

  “You have to get her!” he cried. “You have to get her before it’s too late.”

  And before I could say anything, he let out a surprised cry and collapsed to the floor, hard. It was then that I got a good look at him: his clothing was odd and he didn’t seem to fit in at all. A stranger in a strange land.45

  “Make room, make room!46” Han cried, seeing that the situation was critical.

  I knelt beside the man and he whispered to me urgently, “The wand or the horn, whichever she has—”
>
  “Take it easy,” I told him calmly.

  “No!” he cried. “I came all this way, all this time looking for you. She’s got it, get the horn and get back before it’s too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “The fabric of the universe is tearing,” he whispered. “We should never have done it, never knew. She’s your daughter, you’ve got to find her, get her back. Her wand’s made of thiotimoline47, dip it in water and drink.”

  “Our daughter?” Han asked, kneeling on the other side of him.

  The old man’s lips twitched as he pointed at each of us in turn, “Han, Sam,—” and he pointed off towards the vanished girl “—witch.48”

  He looked at me with one final, anguished expression, whispering, “Sorry Dad, sorry it took so long.” His eyes focused to the distance as he added, “The lightning. I had to ride the lightning.”

  Around us, the lights flickered. Han and I exchanged glances and when I looked back down again, he was gone.

  * * *

  Numbly, I led her out of the crowd, towards the doors to the evening air, watching her carefully.

  “Our son?” she wondered, glancing back toward the now-full atrium. She looked toward where the little witch had disappeared. “Our daughter?”

  I could see her tears brimming, threatening to fill her eyes.

  “Han?” I said quietly to her, going to one knee and putting a hand on her leg soothingly. “Are you crying?”

  “Flow my tears,” the policeman said49.

  “He was old,” I told her.

  She tilted her head up, caught my eyes with hers as she explained, “The doors of his face, the lamps of his mouth.50”

  Her eyes lit with determination as she said, “We’ll have to find her.”

  “Before it’s too late,” I agreed.

  After a moment she stood and I followed wordlessly, circling behind her back and leaning her against me. For a long while we stood: Sentinel51, against the fall of night52.

  The sliding doors opened and noise from the rest of the con flowed over us, beckoning.

  “Come on,” I said to her, pulling her around so that she faced inwards once more. “Once more into the breach.53”

  She smiled at that but shook her head, correcting, “Back to the future54.”

  1 With apologies to the Fab Four.

  2 With apologies to Piers Anthony and A Spell for Chameleon.

  3 Again, sorry, John, Paul, George, Ringo.

  4 Sorry, Harlan.

  5 With apologies to every Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  6 With apologies to Robert A. Heinlein.

  7 Sorry, Gene.

  8 Sorry, George.

  9 Sorry, Brothers Grimm.

  10 Sorry, Ms. Burnett.

  11 Please don’t sue me!

  12 Hey, if the fit hits the Shan!

  13 Sorry, Percy.

  14 Just a short joke.

  15 Apologies, Mr. Bradbury.

  16 Did anyone get this?

  17 Sorry, George, it was too easy.

  18 Ditto.

  19 Apologies, George Alec Effinger.

  20 What can I say, George?

  21This one you’ve got hum, Mary Chapin Carpenter.

  22 Fondly recalling John M. Ford.

  23 Hey, George, you can’t complain! I tied you into a classic here.

  24 Hi, David! (And Harlan)

  25 Hi, Harlan.

  26 Sorry, Gene.

  27 With apologies to Bob Asprin and Lynn Abbey.

  28 Again, sorry Bob!

  29 Apologies to Lois!

  30 Sorry again, Lois!

  31 Gotta be a gamer to get this one.

  32 With apologies to the pear-shaped man himself.

  33 Sorry, Mr. Meyer.

  34 George!

  35 Gene!

  36 George.

  37 George.

  38 Again, George.

  39 Gotta be a gamer.

  40 Apologies to Stephen.

  41 Apologies to Mr. Bradbury.

  42 Apologies to Silverbob.

  43 With apologies to Gordon Dickson.

  44 Again, sorry, Gordy!

  45 Sorry again, Mr. Heinlein.

  46 Sorry, Harry!

  47 Isaac, see? I worked you in, too.

  48 This one’s all mine.

  49 With apologies to the late Mr. Philip K. Dick.

  50 Acknowledgements to Roger Zelazny.

  51 For Arthur.

  52 For Isaac.

  53 And how can you not do something like this without one poke at the Bard?

  54 With apologies to both Mr. Zemeckis and Mr. Spielberg.

  “THE ART SHOW is on fire!”

  I spun in the direction of the shout to see people running toward the brilliant orange and red flickering light coming from the ballroom that housed the DragonCon art show. My heart froze for a moment at the thought of that room, of all rooms, going up in flames. Even now, before the official start of the convention, the room was filled with irreplaceable works by Maitz, Eggleton, Whelan, and many others. They were still setting the show, so the ballroom would be crowded with cardboard boxes, shipping crates, and packing paper—all even more flammable than the art.

  “Ohmigod, Kari! My art is in there!” Mozelle Funderburke, one of my clients exhibiting in the show, turned and sprinted for the ballroom. She had been speaking with Michelle Poche, Jean Marie Ward and me in the foyer outside the ballroom when the shout went up. The rest of us were soon in hot pursuit, despite the fact that we were all wearing high-heeled shoes in preparation for the pre-con party.

  Jean Marie, a stunning red-head and DragonCon regular, published an on-line magazine. The convention was a major source of material for her writers. Michelle, author and screen writer, was new to Dragon, making her debut as a guest after the success of her first screenplay. A statuesque blond, she had been a model before becoming a writer and her long legs allowed her to easily outdistance the rest of us. She dove into the ballroom, only to stop so suddenly that I narrowly avoided piling into her. I can run in heels, but stopping is a little more difficult. I recovered my balance and stared in disbelief.

  The huge ballroom exhibited the usual chaotic disarray of pre-con art installation with boxes, crates, hanging materials, and art scattered haphazardly around the hall, all illuminated by angry flickering orange and red lights. The roaring lights and shadows glowed on every wall and surface, just as they would if there were a fire raging in the room, but I could see no flames. It sounded like fire, even looked like fire, but nothing was actually burning. Everyone else converging on the show appeared to be equally baffled. After it finally sank in that the art show was in no immediate danger, I started looking for the source of the “fire.” The amazing light show appeared to emanate from one of the displays near the center of the room. It was a very realistic simulation. Despite the lack of actual heat or flames, it looked as if we were walking into a raging inferno. The effect appeared almost three-dimensional.

  “It’s like being in a Star Wars hologram.” Jean Marie held out her hand in wonder and watched the “flame” lights dance on it.

  “Is this a normal part of the convention?” Michelle asked as we joined the crowd of artists and staff gathering around the apparent source of the light show. I had warned her that DragonCon was an event unlike any other, and to be prepared for anything. But, though I was a multi-year veteran of the con and its art show, I had never seen anything quite like this.

  The imagery appeared to be projected from a strangely shaped sculpture, approximately two to three feet in size, attached to a slender black pedestal. The sculpture itself, carved out of some sort of glowing amber, resembled stylized flames—except, unlike amber, this stuff was moving, almost like melting and reforming wax. We watche
d as it undulated, flames caught in liquid and then animated in slow-motion. The pedestal had a wide base that narrowed to a thin pillar about three and a half feet tall before widening to a broad curved top that seemed to be connected to the glowing sculpture in an almost organic pod-sort of the way a rose is connected to its stalk.

  “Normal? Nope. So far as I know no one’s ever pretended to burn down the art show before—although there were times in the old days when some of the jury-rigged electrical wiring threatened to do it for real.” I leaned in to take a closer look, trying to see where the amazing light projections were coming from. “I’ve seen a lot of unusual work, but this artist is new to me.”

  This was a major admission, since I had begun my fannish career as an artist and art show volunteer. I had worked my way up to art show director before branching off to become an art and then a literary agent. As a result, I knew—or had at least heard of—pretty much every artist who had ever worked in the science-fiction and fantasy genre. For me to be unaware of an artist that could produce something as impressive as this sculpture meant the artist was either brand new—or had been hiding under a rock.

  “New to me, too, Kari.” Rob Patrick, the director of the art show, came up behind me, startling me. Tall and broad, he loomed over my petite five foot three inch frame. He also had a big, jovial presence, which, combined with his size, normally made it impossible for him to sneak up on anyone. But normally he wasn’t competing with a raging forest fire light show. Standing between Rob and Michelle, I felt like a dwarf.

  “So who is your new wunderkind?” I gestured at the glowing sculpture. “Do you know if they already have an agent?” My official purpose in attending DragonCon was to sign new clients and make deals for existing clients—which made a great, tax-deductible excuse to attend my favorite show. But to pay the bills I had to actually do the work. And any artist that could produce art that could move and spit holographic fire would be a marvelous addition to my client list.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, then, pass me their info and I’ll ask myself.” I batted my eyes persuasively.