Here Be Dragons

by Bill Fawcett

  On the way out the door I spotted Anne McCaffrey, the Granddame of Fantasy, nestled in her wheelchair. She spotted me and waved. I waved back, and her convention-appointed assistant obediently pushed her over to meet me. Anne introduced me to her minder, a cute young volunteer named Claire. She was one of the few celebrities who rated a twenty-four hour companion to aid her throughout the convention.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Anne indicated the lightshow going on around us. “It’s just marvelous to see what artists can do with technology these days.”

  “That it is,” I admitted. “Are you going over to judge the dragon egg contest?”

  “No. I think the actual judging is tomorrow.” She looked to Claire, who quickly checked the schedule and nodded agreement. “But I want to get a look at the rest of the art show while I have a chance. Perhaps we can chat later?”

  “Love to.”

  Anne and Claire continued on into the show. I looked after them for a moment, thinking the wheel chair was very misleading. Anne McCaffrey wrote the first fantasy genre novel to make it onto the New York Times best sellers list, and she had been setting the standard ever since. Though bound to a wheel chair much of the time, her mind remained razor sharp and her will, iron.

  I made it to Dan’s booth, but Dan wasn’t there. That was unusual for him, especially since he had chosen the time to fit in with his schedule. No one knew where he had gone. I pulled up a chair, enjoying the special effects show while I waited, but Dan never showed. I finally gave up, leaving him a note. I hated trying to squeeze in rescheduled meetings at a convention, but this deal was lucrative enough for both of us that I would have to make the effort. By the time I left, the light show had ended and the sculpture was still again.

  Jean Marie met me at the Art Show entrance. “Hey, Kari. Did you hear about Robert Hutch?”

  Robert Hutch was an actor and a DragonCon regular. He had been on a reasonably successful sci-fi show in the seventies and now did guest roles on the new version of that series. I knew him, though not well. But Jean Marie had interviewed him several times for her magazine.

  “No. What about him?”

  “He went missing, right before his talk. They’re saying one minute he was in the green-room, and the next minute he was gone. He turned up about twenty minutes ago claiming he was kidnapped by the Cylons. Everyone else seems to think he was lured away by some sweet young fan.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. So far as I know he has never missed a guest appearance before. He knows the fans helped get his show back on the air. I feel he would never knowingly stand them up.”

  “Well, my appointment stood me up, so I’ve got a little time to kill.”

  “Great, let’s hit the coffee bar.”

  Nestled into one corner of the towering atrium, the coffee bar not only provided great gourmet coffee and tea, it also provided a great view of the Hyatt Atrium concourse, one of the premier people-watching spots in the convention. In the evenings, the concourse was like an off-world red-carpet event, but even in the daytime it was an amazing amalgamation of people and costumes. From a seat in the coffee bar, or in the adjoining restaurant, it was possible to watch the entire convention pass by. Over the years, the coffee bar had become our favorite hang-out spot—especially since they made a mean Chai Tea Latte.

  I called Michelle on her cell to invite her to meet us, but she wanted to attend the Crossed Swords live combat performance. Fannish costumes and medieval sword-play were all new to Michelle, and I knew the Crossed Swords always put on an excellent show. Since Michelle hoped to eventually write a medieval fantasy to go with her more contemporary work, I though the demo would be a perfect introduction to the genre. I had done my time swinging a sword as a member of the Society for Creative Anachronisms and had even performed on a sword demo team in my youth, so I felt no compelling need to watch the show myself.

  “Enjoy. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  We had only been at the coffee shop a few moments when I spotted Roxy Caine sitting in the back of the adjoining restaurant swathed in one of her elegant embroidered saris. I hopped the rail between the restaurant and the coffee shop and went over to check on her.

  “Hey, Roxy, we missed you this morning.”

  “Oh, hi, Kari. Look, I am so sorry I missed that panel this morning. I don’t know what happened.” Normally poised and extremely self confident, she looked very distressed.

  “It’s OK. No problem. Everyone oversleeps once in a while. The panel went fine.” I tried to reassure her.

  “But, I didn’t oversleep.” She insisted, grabbing my hand to emphasize the point. “I have a book due next week. I was in the coffee shop writing by 6:00 a.m. I stopped about ten-fifteen, in plenty of time for an eleven o’clock panel. I remember stopping to look into the art show on my way to the panel. The next thing I knew I was standing in the pet shop in the Mall several hours later.”

  “But you’re allergic to cats and dogs.”

  “I’m allergic to everything with fur! I have no idea what I was doing there or how I got there. Somehow I even left my computer in the art show.”

  Now I was certain something was terribly wrong. Roxy’s life—all her manuscripts and edits for the new book—were on that computer. There was no way she would let it out of her sight. Yet, she herself was telling me it happened.

  “Please don’t tell anyone outside of the other panelists. I don’t want anyone to think I’m losing it. But I wanted you to know I didn’t stand you up on purpose.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I reassured her as best I could, then made my way back to my stool at the coffee shop. I passed on Roxy’s apology to Jean Marie.

  “Poor Roxy. That must have been unnerving. At least she’s OK.” We mulled over theories about Roxy’s strange excursion, but none of our conjectures made sense, even to us.

  “Hey, guys.”

  Michelle captured an empty chair and pulled up to our table. “I thought you were going to watch the Crossed Swords?”

  “I was. But they never showed. So I decided to join you.”

  We spent the next hour “people watching.” Even by day, DragonCon boasted more spandex and leather per square foot than anything outside a fetish convention. Add to that the Storm Trooper Cadres, Brown Shirt contingents, Predator beasts, and medieval warriors and wenches, and it made for better entertainment than satellite TV. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Roxy’s strange memory lapse, or Peter Gerard’s unorthodox excursion.

  “Hey, guys!” I looked up to see Lisa and Tyler, two fans from my home town who were also DragonCon regulars. “Mind if we join you?” Lisa, a short, buxom redhead, grabbed the powerfully built Tyler and directed him to get more chairs. While we struggled to squeeze two more people around the already-crowded tiny bistro table. I introduced them to Michelle.

  “The Michelle Poche?” Lisa gushed. “You wrote The Furies! I loved that movie!”

  “Thanks. Glad you liked it.” Michelle flashed her dazzling smile. “I saw you guys at the Crossed Swords demo.”

  “Yeah, we saw you there, too. But it’s nice to officially meet you.”

  “I waited for fifteen minutes, before giving up. Did they ever show up?”

  Tyler shook his head while Lisa answered for both of them. “No they never did. But,” she leaned in close “it was the strangest thing. They found all their swords and stuff lying in the back hall.”

  Jean Marie and I exchanged startled glances. We both knew that no self respecting swordsman would leave his weapons lying around unattended. And these guys were pros.

  “Something must have happened to them,” she said.

  “They’ve got security out looking for them,” Tyler assured us, “but some of the staff said they saw them in that hall about twenty minutes before the demo.”

  “C
uriouser and curiouser,” Jean Marie shook her head “this is shaping up to be one strange con.”

  At Lisa and Tyler’s blank looks, I brought them up to speed on the unusual events to date—omitting Roxy Caine’s unplanned trip to the pet store. They had no theories either, but were planning to make a point of viewing the “art show artifact” as it was being dubbed, for themselves.

  I had to excuse myself for another meeting, so we agreed to try to get together later to attend the parties—I had to reserve the evening meal for a publisher. Tyler and Lisa agreed to show Michelle around the convention.

  Throughout the rest of the day I continued to hear about various guests missing their events, or showing up in strange locations. Some of the stories were typical behavior for that particular guest, but too many did not make sense. When I finally met up with Jean Marie and Michelle later that night in the hospitality suite, we decided to compare notes. It turned out they had been hearing a lot of missing-in-action stories, too.

  “Wow.” Michelle shook her head. “If all these stories are true, an awful lot of people have gone MIA. And almost all of them are well-known celebrities.”

  “And, so far as we know,” Jean Marie added, “most of them are turning up in unexpected places with no memory of how they got there.”

  We had gathered out on the balcony, away from the noise and crush of the party in full swing behind us, where we had a better chance of talking without being overheard.

  “Yeah, if this was anywhere other than DragonCon, they’d have a full scale investigation in place,” I grumbled. “As it is, everyone expects strange behavior from us sci-fi geeks, so no one’s going to take this seriously.”

  “I think Pat Henry is taking it seriously,” Jean Marie insisted. Leaning in and keeping her voice low. “I saw him outside Convention Operations headquarters a little while ago. He was on the radio with security, looking very pissed and ordering them to beef up protection on all VIP’s.”

  Pat Henry was the head honcho of the entire convention. If he was worried, things were serious.

  “There you are! You’ll never guess what happened!” Lisa came bouncing through the door, sporting an elaborate leather and silk corset that showcased her ample assets. Tyler followed close behind her, also dressed to the nines in a goth-inspired suit. We made room for them on the now-crowded balcony, forcing Tyler to stand pressed up against Lisa’s back. But he wasn’t suffering. I could tell he was enjoying the view afforded by her steel-boned garment.

  “No, I can’t guess. What happened?”

  “We went to the Dethhead concert—and they disappeared! Poof! Right off the stage!” Lisa illustrated by waving her hands in what was apparently meant to be a poofing motion. Dethhead was one of the more notorious bands that played the DragonCon stage. They were known more for their garish costumes, piercings, and on-stage antics than for their music.

  “They came back,” Tyler quickly added. “We thought the concert was over but they came back only a few moments later. They announced that they had been abducted by the alien mothership, but the aliens had taken one look at them and thrown them back.”

  “Do you think they were taken by whatever caused the other disappearances?” I could tell Lisa wanted that to be true.

  “Knowing Dethhead? I think they found a way to capitalize on the events of the day and showcase a new stunt at the same time.” Jean Marie had done an in-depth article on the notorious band for her magazine. They were all about the spectacle.

  Lisa was clearly disappointed by Jean Marie’s pronouncement, but Tyler nodded agreement.

  “So, aside from the Dethhead stunt, do we have an idea how many people have been affected?” Michelle asked

  We really didn’t. After mulling things around, we finally agreed the best course of action was to let Pat Henry and con security handle things—much to Lisa’s disappointment. But we would all keep our ears and eyes open just in case. We agreed to meet again the next day in the art show, mostly because it was centrally located and the site of my rescheduled afternoon meeting with Dan Mais. It was getting drafty on the balcony and I was wearing a strapless dress, so I decided to call it a night, leaving the others to party on at will.

  Truthfully, I hated puzzles, and this whole disappearance thing was looking more and more like a giant puzzle. DragonCon was crazy enough without complications—though I was sure it was much worse for the people actually involved. I couldn’t stop thinking about Peter Gerard, now stuck with a reputation as a lush, or Roxy Caine, shaken with the feeling that her brilliant mind had somehow betrayed her.

  The next day, I was busy enough with meetings and several back-to-back panels that I managed to avoid thinking about the disappearances until it was time for my meeting with Dan. He was waiting at his booth this time.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday. I really seriously overslept—by hours, apparently. I’ve never done that before. And I had the strangest dream. It was about Captain Martin and purple waves.”

  Dan had created the image of the iconic Captain Martin for the Rum of the same name, so that part of the dream didn’t seem that unusual to me. As for purple waves? Well he was a sea Captain on a rum label. Dan clearly didn’t want to talk about it further, so I didn’t press the issue. I wanted him to sign off on the contract, and making him more uncomfortable than he already was served no purpose.

  After the meeting, I decided to see how Rob was doing with the rest of the art show.

  “So how’s it going today? Any artists gone missing?” I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t take it that way.

  “Actually, quite a few,” he growled. “Apparently many artists no longer believe in honoring their commitments.”

  “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “Well, some artists are just blowing off their panels and slide shows. They all received the schedule in advance, just like always, but some of the big guys, the ones you’d most expect to be professional, are just not showing up.”

  The room lit up around us as the sculpture chose that moment to begin another light show. This time the colors were bronze, gold and green. It reminded me a little of jewels, or a summer morning in the country. The sound it made reminded me of wind—or maybe a flock of birds.

  “And I still don’t know who dumped that sculpture thing here. We spent an hour last night trying to figure out how to turn it off. I guess I just have to hope the damn thing will eventually run out of batteries or something.”

  Rob was almost always cheerful, even under the extreme pressures of the art show. The fact that he was complaining at all showed that events were getting to him. I knew from experience that if he lost it, his whole staff would be affected.

  “Well, it can’t be as bad as the year I got stuck with the dead horse.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, I remember that. It was a prop from a battle scene in that Mel Gibson Movie, The Patriot, wasn’t it?”

  “The artist never came back to claim it. We were stuck trying to figure out what to do with a very realistic, revolutionary war era, dead horse. Fake blood and all. We ended up loading it on a huge dolly and wheeling it though the halls on Monday morning, freaking all the business types. We finally managed to load it in a truck and transport it to the DragonCon warehouse for storage. I swear it was nearly as heavy as a real dead horse.”

  “Well, at least it didn’t smell like one.” Rob laughed. His good mood was back. I had done my job.

  Behind us, just as suddenly as it began, the light show ended.

  “Just remember, it can always get worse.”

  “Help! I need help!” I turned to see who was shouting and saw Anne McCaffrey’s assistant Claire running frantically though the art show. “Someone help!”

  “Claire! What’s wrong?” She spotted me and allowed Rob and me to intercept her. “Has something happened to Anne?”

  “Anne’s gone!” Claire
was wide eyed and obviously upset. “She was there and now she’s gone!”

  “She can’t be gone,” Rob insisted gently.

  “Start from the beginning.” I grabbed her shoulders to help her focus. “Take a deep breath.”

  A small crowd started to gather around us. I was relieved to see that Michelle and Jean Marie had arrived. They quickly assessed the situation and helped keep everyone but security back, while Rob and I focused on Claire.

  “From the beginning, Claire. What happened?”

  “I took Anne over to judge the dragon egg contest. Then I turned my back for a moment—and she disappeared!”

  I felt a sense of relief. Anne was notorious for taking off on her own when her minders weren’t looking. She could be a speed demon in the wheel chair when she put her mind to it.

  “I’m sure she’s around,” Rob insisted.

  “I know Anne.” I tried to be reassuring. “She probably just decided to take off on her own. Don’t worry, she can’t get far in that wheelchair, and she’ll be easy to spot.”

  “But that’s just it!” Claire sobbed, “Her wheelchair is still there!”

  She pointed, stiff armed, across the room where an empty wheel chair sat in front of a display of dragon eggs. Claire dropped her arm and burst into tears. Rob and I looked helplessly at each other.

  “I think it just got worse,” he whispered.

  He quickly alerted security to send teams to comb the convention and surrounding areas for Ms. McCaffrey, then questioned his own security people posted on the art room doors. None of them had seen Anne leave, and they all knew her. Jean Marie examined the empty wheelchair and reported back that all of Anne’s possessions seemed to be in place. I tried to calm Claire and think. Anne could walk without a wheel chair, but not well and not far. How did someone disappear from what was arguably the most secure room in the convention? Because of the value of its contents, the art show was under guard twenty-four hours a day. No one got in without a badge, and no one got out without getting checked by security.