Here Be Dragons

by Bill Fawcett

  Rob shrugged. “No. You’ve got it wrong. I have no idea who the artist is. Whoever brought this hasn’t checked in yet.”

  That wasn’t surprising, since the show was still getting set; there were a lot of artists who had not yet officially checked in.

  “Then look at your list and see who reserved this space.” I knew the art show always sold out, so there should have been a name to go with every space.

  “That’s just it. This space was never reserved. It was supposed to be left open as floor space for the performers. Whoever brought this in just set it up and left. I’m hoping they remember to come back and check in.”

  “Performers?” Michelle looked perplexed. “I thought this was an art show.”

  “It is. But one of the things that make the Dragon art show different is the addition of the performing arts,” I explained.

  “Yeah, we bring musicians and dancers in at specified times throughout the show to entertain. That way, people are more likely to stick around for the show and then spend money on the art. That,” Rob added proudly, “was my addition to the show’s legacy. The artists love it.”

  “Us starving artists love anything that will bring buyers in to keep us from starving,” Mozelle quipped. She had rejoined us after having checked her display. “All the people in the world won’t do any good if they’re not in the show.”

  I grimaced, remembering past DragonCon art shows, some under my watch, when the art show had been relegated to a ghetto in a building several blocks away from the rest of the convention. Back then I could not afford the luxury of worrying about performance art. It had taken most of my team’s time and effort just to make sure the attendees knew the art show existed. A light display like this one would have gone a long way toward convincing fans to walk a few blocks to see the show.

  “I’m going to have to figure out a new spot for the performers, because I’m not about to try to move that thing.” Rob gestured at the strange sculpture. “The worst part is, they left without even putting a bid sheet out. We have no idea what to charge if someone wants to buy it.”

  “Well, in a way the light show is a performance.” Michelle pointed out. “You could probably even dance to it.”

  Just as suddenly as it began, the light show stopped. The sculpture stopped moving, frozen in a form that resembled dull, partially melted caramel. Jean Marie moved in to examine the piece, running her hands over the sculpture and the base.

  “It feels like glass or smooth ceramic. But I can’t find any source for the projection or any kind of switch to turn it on or off.”

  Rob and I joined her, making our own examination of the piece, but she was right. The surface of both sculpture and base were completely smooth. It had no openings or projections of any kind. Rob even tugged on the sculpture to lift it from its base, but it didn’t budge.

  “Whoever made this was certainly thorough. It appears pretty tough.”

  “So what are you going to do, Rob?”

  “Not much I can do. I’ll put the performers somewhere else and hope this artist checks in soon. In the meantime, I have a show to set.”

  “If you’re done with that, I’ve got some artists that need to talk to you.”

  I looked up to see John, the art show second, standing by with a clipboard and a line of artists. “No rest for the wicked,” I whispered. Rob rolled his eyes at me, then put on his art show happy face to greet the first artist. “Hi, what can I do for you?”

  “There’s not enough light on my bay and one of my paintings is missing!”

  “Missing? I’m sure it’s just misplaced. The area is controlled by security. It can’t have gone far. Where did you unpack it?” Rob took the artist gently by the arm and led him towards his display bay.

  I had heard it all hundreds of times before. It was one of the reasons I retired from art show administration. I love the art and the artists, but the work was always grueling. The art show was arguably the most difficult area of any convention. Between administrating the registration of artists, sales of space, set up and tear down of the show, sales of the art, the auction, shipping and receiving art, and paying the artists after the show, the art director also had to deal with fragile creative egos and desperate artists. That often meant twenty-hour days during the show as well as months of work before and after—and all for free. As in most SF conventions, Rob and his entire art staff volunteered their time, busting their butt for a free pass to a convention they never had time to see. You had to love the art and the artists to do the job—either that or you had to be crazy. As for me, I plead the fifth.

  And the artists they served? Most lived on the edge. They often epitomized the classic “starving artist.” Many of them were at the mercy of the art show staff to ensure they made enough sales to get home, much less have food or shelter. That desperation could be difficult to face, especially in the pressure-cooker environment of a four-day show. I missed the adventure—but not enough to go back. As an agent I could pick and choose whom I wanted to represent, and I only picked artists and authors whose work I knew I could sell. Not only that, as an agent I actually got paid for helping creative people. And if I got bored? I could always write.

  “Well, looks like the excitement’s over. We need to get to work. The meet and greet pre-con party should be underway.” I smiled at Michelle. “Time to introduce you to some of the other denizens of DragonCon.”

  “Fresh meat!” Jean Marie laughed an evil laugh as we left for the meet-and-greet. Disguised as parties, these events were a crucial part of the convention, giving me needed access to the clients and buyers that kept me in business, and giving Jean Marie access to celebrities for her magazine.

  We arrived at the hospitality suite, high up in the Hyatt, to find the party in full swing. Later in the convention I knew the parties would fill the room and spill out onto the balcony. But many of the two hundred-plus guests would not arrive until later in the show, making the pre-con party sedate by comparison. We showed our credentials to the security volunteer at the door and went inside. I waved at a few familiar faces and led the way to the buffet.

  “Kari, can I talk to you for a moment?” Bill Foss, a dapper silver-haired gentleman, intercepted me. His tailored business jacket and button-down shirt always made him stand out amid the T-shirts and spandex favored by the convention crowd. He said he wore them to blend in—but in this crowd they had the exact opposite effect.

  Now a high-powered Hollywood agent, he was also a good friend. He had helped me get my start and had taught me a lot about running an agency. When any of his actors decided they wanted to write, he sent them to me. Whenever any of my writers wanted to sell scripts, he helped pave the way for them. He was also a consummate ladies man. I figured this was a good time to introduce Bill to Michelle, since she was both a scriptwriter and a gorgeous woman, two of Bill’s favorite things.

  “Hi, Bill, glad you’re here. I have someone you need to meet. Michelle ...”

  “Oh, yeah nice to meet you.” He interrupted before I could even finish the introduction, not even looking at Michelle or Jean Marie before grabbing my arm to pull me aside. “Kari, I have a problem. Do you have a moment?”

  Baffled, I shrugged apologetically to the girls and let him pull me away to the relative privacy of the outer balcony. I knew it must be something serious if it made Bill forget to flirt. “What’s up? You OK?”

  “No. I can’t find Peter.”

  “Peter?” My brain fogged as I tried to guess which of the many men named Peter he meant.

  “Peter Gerard. The actor.”

  “Oh!” Peter Gerard played the lead in a hit sci-fi show called Babel Six. He was also one of Bill’s best clients and was planning to do a book deal with me. “That Peter.” At Bill’s look of exasperated distress, I tried to think of something to calm him. Like most who breathed the California air, Bill could be quite high strung
. “Are you sure he’s arrived? A lot of the Hollywood crowd won’t be in until tomorrow.”

  “He was already in. We spoke this morning. He had a meeting with me late this afternoon, but he never showed. I phoned his room but no one answered. I even had the maid check it. His luggage is there, but he’s gone. He’s never missed a meeting before.”

  “He probably just ran into some fans and decided to give them some quality time. You know how generous he is. I’m sure he’ll turn up.” I wasn’t sure of anything. But I knew it wasn’t good for Bill to get wound up about a missing actor—especially at a convention.

  “I’m just concerned.” He took a deep breath. “If you see him or hear anything, let me know.”

  I agreed. Bill said he was too tense to stay at the party and left. I rejoined my friends, mildly concerned about Mr. Gerard’s absence. If he missed a meeting with Bill, his primary agent, that didn’t bode well for his meeting with me.

  I tried to put the matter aside, making apologies for Bill and bringing the girls up to speed about what had happened. I promised Michelle another round of introductions when Bill was more focused, and we proceeded to attempt to enjoy the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  The next morning, Jean Marie met me outside my room.

  “Did you hear? They found Peter Gerard. He apparently spent yesterday and most of the night at the Old Mill Inn getting soused at the bar. The news is all over the convention.”

  “That doesn’t sound right. Peter doesn’t drink.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I was positive. “Remember that con in Chicago I told you about where they took all the guests and VIP fans on a gambling boat cruise the night before the convention opened?”

  “Yeah. It was called something like Big Cosmos or something.”

  “That’s the one. Well, Mr. Gerard and I were both guests at that one. The cruise consisted of several hours on a casino boat filled with gambling machines and free drinks. And do you know where Mr. Gerard spent the cruise? While most of the guests were playing the slots and sucking down free cocktails, he was on the top deck with a bunch of fans, drinking Diet Coke while teaching them how to play a dexterity game with empty soda cups. Does that sound like a man who would go out and get drunk the night before a convention appearance?”

  She agreed that it did not. Something was not adding up.

  I made my way downstairs and spotted Bill at breakfast in the restaurant tucked into one side of the vast Hyatt atrium. He immediately waved me over.

  “Please join me. I was supposed to have breakfast with Peter, but he said he didn’t feel well. At least if I am having breakfast with a pretty girl I won’t ruin my reputation.”

  I had already eaten a breakfast bar in my room, but I slid into the chair across from him. “Ah, the flatterer is back. You must be feeling better—either that or you want something.”

  “Can’t I just be appreciative of your beauty?”

  “You are never just appreciative of anything. But it doesn’t hurt my ego.” I ordered a cup of tea from the attentive waitress. I noticed she was wearing some alien-looking makeup, probably in honor of the convention. “Seriously, though, is Peter OK? I heard they found him in a downtown bar.”

  “That part is true. But Peter says he has no idea how he got there. One minute he was in the Hyatt, the next minute he was on the floor at the Old Mill. He says he has no memory of the time in between. Everyone seems to think he was upset about the end of his TV show and went out to drown his sorrows. But you know that Peter doesn’t drink. And he has no sorrows to drown. He was here to announce a deal for a new show. He is very excited about it.” Bill took a drink of his orange juice. I stirred cream into my tea and waited for him to continue.

  “I saw him shortly after they brought him back to the hotel. He was certainly disoriented, but not from booze.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve been around far too many alcoholic actors to misread the signs.”

  “How are you going to handle damage control?” We both knew the con rumor mill was in full swing.

  “I think he’s just going to let it ride. As long as Peter is funny and accessible to the fans, they’ll just chalk up the episode as a new part of his legend: the hard drinking party animal.”

  “That’s going to be tough to swallow. I know I’d resent the heck out of it if people thought I was a heavy drinker.” I sipped my tea, the strongest thing I ever drank.

  “Well, Peter is an actor and a professional. He’ll play the role because he knows that trying to deny it will only make things worse.”

  I left the table feeling bad for Peter. It didn’t help that the only things I could think of that would cause both amnesia and disorientation were all worse than being drunk. I didn’t mention any of them to Bill, but I was certain he already had the list running through his mind, too.

  This DragonCon was shaping up to be even stranger than most. But I still had a job to do. As a successful agent and part-time writer, I was scheduled to speak on several panels. The parties were important for my business, allowing opportunities for networking and making deals, but the panels were for the fans. And it was the fans who made all the machinery turn for the entire industry. They bought the books, saw the movies and played the games that kept the rest of us working. It was their admission fees that made the convention possible. This first panel promised to be fun. Jean Marie was on it and my friend, best selling author Roxy Caine, was the moderator. The topic involved vampires and sex—a surefire crowd pleaser.

  The panel room was buried deep in the lower levels of the Hyatt. Despite struggling with the overloaded elevators, I managed to arrive right on time, sliding into my seat beside Jean Marie. The room was filled to capacity with fans, most in spandex, leather, and goth style makeup, despite the early hour. I felt underdressed in my jeans and blouse, despite the fact that my outfit would be club wear anywhere else. It was obvious that most of the fans were there to see Roxy Caine.

  “Where’s Roxy?” Jean Marie asked. “Isn’t she moderating?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet, but I’m sure she’ll be here.”

  But Roxy never arrived. We did the panel without her, sharing the moderating duties among us, while making apologies to Roxy’s fans. It wasn’t unusual for writers to miss their panels, but it was unusual for Roxy. She took her convention commitments very seriously. It was that professional work ethic, along with a brilliant mind and a gift for storytelling that had taken her all the way to the best seller list.

  After the panel, I tried to call Roxy on her cell phone, but the call went straight to voice mail—hardly surprising since the mass of concrete and steel in the convention hotels made cell phone signals notoriously unreliable. I gave up, resolving to try again later. In the meantime, I had to get to a meeting with an illustrator about a lucrative magazine cover deal.

  The illustrator, Dan Mais, had a table in the artist alley area of the art show. I arrived at the ballroom to find it unusually crowded for the first morning of the convention. The boxes, crates and packing material from the night before had all been stowed away out of sight. Paintings and sculptures filled the bays and covered the tables of the central gallery area in an inviting display of imaginative imagery. Artist Bazaar sales booths belonging to individual artists lined the walls of the room. A four-person Celtic music group played a rollicking jig for an appreciative crowd in one of the open areas between the display bays. As I pushed through the crowds, I noticed the piece that had created such a stir the night before. It rested, still and cold, on its pedestal near the center of the show, surrounded by a mixed group of costumed attendees, most in leather and spandex. I had a few moments before my meeting, so I decided to give it another look.

  The staff had erected a rope barrier around it to create a viewing perimeter. Someone had scribbled a hand-written sign and taped i
t to the base where the official bid sheet normally would have been attached. It read “Unknown Alien Artifact.” Something else seemed different about the sculpture itself, but I couldn’t decide what it was. There was still no obvious machinery to explain its behavior.

  Rob must have seen me come in. He met me at the display.

  “Hey, Rob, the show looks great. You’d never guess there’d been a fire in here. How’s business?”

  “It’s booming. Word has gotten out about the light shows. I had to put up this rope to keep people off of it. Everyone wants to know when the next show is scheduled. Of course we can’t tell them anything because we don’t actually know anything. We just tell them to stick around and see.” He gestured expansively at the unusually large crowds milling through the show. “Apparently they’re listening. Now if they just bid on art while they’re waiting, we should break some records.”

  “So there’s still no sign of the artist who left this?”

  “Nope,” he sighed, “not yet.”

  “Wait. I just realized you said shows, as in more than one?”

  “Yeah, the thing has gone off on us a few times now. The last time was a little over an hour ago.”

  “Same thing?”

  “Not really. Oh, it still produced a light show, but each time it created a completely different effect. And when it’s over, the sculpture seems to take on a different shape.”

  I realized that was what seemed strange. The ragged flame-like edges I had seen before no longer existed, leaving the thing looking more like a smooth river-rock.

  “When you find the artist, we’ve got to find out how he made this. It’s odd that no one has turned up to enjoy its popularity. In the meantime, you might as well enjoy the attention it’s generating.”

  “Well, I think the artists are enjoying the added traffic, especially if it gets some sales as well.”

  As if on cue the sculpture lit up. This time, it was as blue and tranquil as it had been red and fiery before. Waves and water seemed to ooze out of the sculpture while blue and green lights, shimmering like sun reflected off of water, filled the room. Every surface within sight looked like it was underwater. A sound that reminded me of surf and waves echoed gently through the room, creating an interesting counterpoint with the musicians. People started pressing close to see it. I decided to escape to my meeting before I ended up crushed in the crowd.