by Bill Fawcett
Knowing that they had ensured the safety of dragon young for over twenty years already pleased the Atlantean dragons. The fact that the convention above them in the three, now four, hotels was an increasing success as well was a bonus.
Not every human was ignorant of the true purpose of DragonCon. The spells that concealed the conference from prying eyes were the product of human wizardry. The mages, witches, priests and priestesses, self-proclaimed Jedi and other seekers after truth who helped to keep the protective spells in place considered the confidence of the dragons an honor and a sacred trust. If they couldn’t return from year to year, they sent substitutes. Longtime human attendees felt like members of a special society, as indeed they were.
On the dragons’ part, DragonCon gave them a controlled point of interaction with friendly humans. (Chinese dragons) and wurms from remote provinces were able to meet and get used to interacting with the strange little soft-skinned two-foots, to teach them to stop fearing humankind as a species, and learn to be wary only of the fearful, crazy or greedy ones. Pat had to admit there were plenty of those, and some of them came to DragonCon. You could never be too careful, but he thought he knew what he needed to about humans.
They had not counted upon the fire ants.
In the centuries before they settled in central Georgia, Pat and his mate had dealt with environmental hazards. Sometimes his nightmares were filled with the Italian volcano where they had set up housekeeping in the 18th century that abruptly came out of dormancy the night after she had set a clutch of five eggs. They had spent the day smelling the rising sulfur and accusing the other of noisome postprandial digestive distress. (They both had a tendency to gorge on Italian food.) Only the warning rumble from below had given them enough warning to vacate their new nest, unwieldy large eggs in hand, so to speak, before half the landscape exploded below them. He’d had to change the mind of packs of hungry wolves in Russia that thought a nice cave filled with warmth and tasty dragonets was a good place to spend January. But never had he had to face such a miserable environmental monstrosity, a pain and a curse, as the minute red insects that trolled in packs of millions below ground in this otherwise pleasant land. By virtue of their small size, fire ants could crawl right underneath a dragon’s scales and inflict an acid-burn bite on vulnerable skin that left one feeling as if one had breathed flames on one’s own flesh. The pain didn’t subside in a day or two. It went on for weeks. The strongest possible healing spells were needed to dry up the acid and heal the bites. And it was never just one ant that attacked: it was anywhere from a dozen to a million. They could kill by overwhelming a being’s immune system.
The nastiest thing Pat had learned about them was that they did it on purpose. Fire ants were capable of spite. What’s more, they weren’t of the low intelligence that most human scientists attributed to them. As the science fiction writers in the convention upstairs might say, they occupied a hive-mind, but not one with a single thought. It was more like a big, old-fashioned party line where they could all talk at once. They detested and resented the above-ground species, especially dragons. They relished a chance to discommode, injure or kill anything they could. Most horrifying of all, young dragons were especially vulnerable to the poison. Fire ants liked the taste of dragon flesh, and could easily muster the numbers to carry off a whole carcass. The dragon community lost a few hatchlings and a least one adult before they understood the danger.
They attempted to make peace with the ants, hoping to establish a detente, but once they made contact with the intelligence behind the swarm, they were sorry they had. The myriad voices that came through the link was as varied as Facebook and as full of vitriol as a Victorian spinster. The loudest and most persistently vicious was the queen ant, Hedaera. She considered dragons her lawful prey, and her millions, if not billions of followers agreed with her. The dragons had no choice but to keep them out of DragonCon any way they had to.
Trouble was, most of the poisons that humans used to repel fire ants were ridiculously toxic to dragons, too.
While dragons weren’t native to that part of the continent, other intelligent species were. The council sent out emissaries to the nightwalkers, nocturnal species who could also take on human shape when they chose. They were eager to form a mutual protection pact. They offered to share what spells they had been using to keep the ants at bay, and received in return what the dragons came up with. The fire ants didn’t take their exclusion quietly; hence the committee’s need for constant vigilance. Luckily, the ants couldn’t tell time and had no concept of the passage of seasons, so they didn’t keep track of the calendar. They only knew DragonCon had begun when the dragons began to arrive. It was up to the council to keep them out until the hatchlings were safely awing.
Surrounded by human midwives, healers and security personnel armed with Raid and tasers, Annette finished triumphantly, setting her final egg. She settled down on the nest and feathered her wings about her, looking a little like a gigantic red hen.
“Six!” she announced.
“Congratulations,” Pat said. It was a large litter by dragon standards. Two was a good deal more usual, and some females went years without producing any. “I’ve got to go. Will you need anything in the meanwhile?”
Annette showed him a mouthful of sharp fangs. “No, thank you, dear Pat. What a relief! See you at opening ceremonies?”
“You can count on it.” Pat breathed out a thin stream of flame that tickled her jowl, a dragon’s kiss. He returned to human form, his suit, tie and radio, and headed for the door. “I have to go back up and look out for more guests. They’ll be arriving every which way.”
* * *
The procession around the motorized chair was not as dignified or as slow-moving as perhaps the escorts would have wished, but they weren’t the ones driving, so to speak.
“Make a hole!” bellowed the tallest man, at the head of the file by virtue of his very long legs, which enabled him to take strides that outdistanced the cart behind him by mere seconds. “Make it wide! Dragon lady coming through!”
The crowd parted hastily. Anne McCaffrey, author of the bestselling Dragonriders of Pern series, and favorite guest of DragonCon, sped across the floor toward the elevators. Her silver-white hair was adorned with an elaborate rondel of pheasant and peacock feathers impaled by a jeweled pin, and her green, purple and blue quilted jacket made a lively statement of color. Green eyes crinkled with amusement and pleasure, she smiled at the faces around her, some grinning, some astonished at finding her in their midst. Koolness, a tall, sharp-faced man with a clipped, fair beard, stayed close to her side. With cat-fast reflexes he gently handed out of her way a young fan who, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and the exciting sights in the Hyatt lobby, was not watching where she was going. At last, they reached the elevator. Koolness held the door open while Anne reversed the chair and backed into the booth. As many fans as possible crowded in around her, their bodies held in a posture of respect.
Aranel, a fierce-looking redhead, was at Anne’s other elbow. She, like many of the women clustered around Anne, was dressed in a pseudo-medieval style. On her shoulder was balanced a tiny toy dragonet with glittering opal eyes. Her tight-laced, wide-sleeved tunic had no pockets, but she had a large pouch laced to her belt. From it she took a handful of papers and a badge festooned with a long ribbon. She handed them to Anne.
“We have a little meet-and-greet scheduled for 4:00, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course!” Anne appealed to Koolness. “Is anyone else here yet?”
He met Aranel’s eyes over Anne’s head. Not everyone in the elevator was in the know. He nodded briefly and closed one eye in what anyone else might call a sensuous wink.
“Just one so far,” Aranel confirmed.
“Good,” Anne said. “I’ve got something for the charity auction. Will one of you two make sure it gets upstairs to Pat?”
“
It would be my pleasure,” Koolness said with a courteous half-bow.
The others in the elevator looked envious. Anne took a book out of the basket of her motorized chair and handed it to him.
“Just Pat—Pat, if you would be so kind. No one else.”
“Of course, my lady,” Koolness said.
To anyone else it looked like a copy of the newest Dragonriders novel, with the illustration of a handsome bronze dragon rising into the sky on the cover. Koolness’s keen eye picked up the faintest movement of a wing tip. He put the book under his arm as he held the door open for Anne to pass through.
* * *
“Hey, Janny!” a tall man with a shaved head and a curled beard shouted across the motor lobby of the Hyatt. He flapped his arm frantically to get her attention.
Janny Wurts and Don Maitz glanced backwards. Janny, a tall, very slim woman with thick dark hair going silver, grinned and waved back. Don, just as slight, with wide eyes and an elegant mustache, turned to see who she was waving at.
“Hey, Steve! Later, okay? We’ve got to get set up!”
“Okay!”
The two artists kept going, pushing the tall standing crates along the corridor into the elevator. More friends hailed them as they emerged, but they kept going, steering the heavy boxes toward the ballroom that housed the art show. One of the art show staff seated in a folding chair at the door, a stout woman with bright carmine braids named Fran, recognized them at once and let them in. She stood aside as they eased the huge boxes down the ramp, then followed them eagerly.
As in years past, the large booth backed by towering pegboards immediately inside the huge room had been set aside for them. With the easy strength of a woman who had spent years breaking horses, Janny pulled an enormous framed canvas out of the first box and hooked it onto the holed boards.
“That’s gorgeous,” Fran said, admiring the handsome blue-scaled dragon who lay curled on a hearth rug in front of a fire. He was surrounded by books, alembics and other magical impedimenta.
“Thanks,” Janny said. She and Don wrestled the next painting out of its crate and put it up. A shimmering, pale dragon whose skin looked like a living opal leaned over a stone balcony, a rose in her claws.
“Wow,” Fran said. Janny gave her an impatient look.
“If you don’t mind, we’d just like to get our stuff up. We have to concentrate to get everything right. It takes a lot of work to put everything where it will look the way we want it to.”
Fran looked guilty. “I’ll come back later and see if you need anything.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Janny watched until Fran had gone back to guarding the door. “Okay, she’s gone.”
“Thank you for the ride, my darlings,” the sibilant voice said from the right hand frame.
“Indeed, it was pleasure,” added the figure in the left-hand frame. “May we request a return journey? It would be most helpful.”
“No problem. Art show pickup is Monday morning,” Don said.
“We’re going to try to blast out of here right after lunch,” Janny added. “We’ve got to get back ASAP. Our horse-sitter can’t stay past Monday.”
“That would be sufficient,” came from the left-hand canvas. “Our thanks. We must leave you now.”
“See ya later,” Janny said.
She and Don stood a casual lookout as two slim shadows slid down the canvases and flattened themselves on the floor. Once there, they took on the same pattern as the carpet. As invisible as any creature that size could be, they flowed invisibly up the stairs and out of the room. The two artists returned to their work, arranging the paintings on the pegboards so they were both attractively arrayed yet not crowded. Janny attached bid sheets to the bottom or side of each one. Don stacked books and cards on the cloth-covered tables.
They had almost finished setting up when Fran returned, pushing a wheeled cooler filled with sweating cans and bottles.
“Do you want some pop or water?” she asked them.
“Thanks,” Janny said, reaching into the box. She popped a can and let the icy, tingling liquid flow down her throat. “Ah. I was dry. You really feel the heat on the drive here.”
Fran frowned. She scanned the display, her finger tracking from side to side. She pointed to the largest piece of art on the left. An elderly wizard the tips of whose sweeping mustaches touched the collar of his brocade robe tented his fingers over a crystal ball at a small table in the middle of the room. Tiny fairies in bright jewel colors flitted around his head, leaving contrails of light. “Didn’t that picture have a dragon in it?”
“Heck, no,” Janny said, pointing to the tag. “There’s the name of it. ‘Wizard’s study.’ There’s no room for a dragon in there.”
Fran glanced at the other major canvas, in which a pale-skinned demoiselle in a flowing silver robe was leaning over the stone sill of a castle window. She didn’t even bother to ask.
* * *
All over the complex of hotels, dragons were arriving, in every size and by every means of transport. More scaled guests crept out of paintings in the art show. Some came disguised as sculptures in bronze, shrunk down into gaggingly adorable ceramic figurines, pressed into papier-mache plaques or concealed in ornately beautiful boxes. Half the artists in science fiction and fantasy were in on the secret. The dealers’ room, too, was full of dragons in hiding, waiting for their chance to slip from their places of concealment and make their way to the conclave.
* * *
It would be a whole lot better, Director of Programming Regina Kirby mused, as she marched down the escalators toward the Regency Ballroom, if magic were easier and cheaper. Then she could teleport from one crisis to another, and not waste so much time running around! The hotel engineer reported that there was a power outage on the Mezzanine level, which might interfere with the first of the major convention presentations. She checked her watch. Only two hours to go. That was no time at all to handle things, and she had nowhere she could transfer the event. Anime and manga had become such a popular media form that thousands of attendees were showing up just to meet the guests. It would really bite if the first panel of the day was held up for lack of electricity. Maybe she could hit up one of the visiting wizards to put a temporary spell on the fuse box and keep it going, at least until the engineers could figure out what was going wrong.
She threaded her way through the growing crowd. A couple of rather handsome, black-bearded men in their thirties wearing black tights and poet shirts were playing guitar at the far end of the level from the escalators, providing a treat for the eye as well as the ear. Regina wished she could stop and appreciate them, but duty called.
She rounded the corner just behind a group of Goths. Most Goths were in their late teens or early twenties, but these looked older. Damn, but the woman in the skimpy black dress had a great figure.
Regina wondered what she did in her mundane life. The human visitors to DragonCon ran the gamut, from waitresses to astrophysicists, from infants attending their first convention to nonagenarians-also attending their first convention.
The musicians who occupied the booth near the tall glass doors leading to the patio were just setting up a pair of enormous speakers. A lot of indie bands whose themes involved fantasy came in to play for the fans, hoping to sell some CDs and gain a following. The very tall man in deliberately slashed black and white layered T-shirts noticed her Staff badge and gave her a casual nod. She waved and went on. The engineer said he would be waiting for her near the door of the ballroom. Regina looked around for a man in coveralls.
A bad whiff of something hit her nostrils. It was a faint scent, but its hot, acid tang was unmistakable. Fire ant. Furious, Regina looked around. Where were those lazy wizards? Nothing should have made it up the concrete steps from street level, or down from the lobby above. No one was complaining about having been bitten, yet. She scanned the floor, looking for th
e telltale trail of red specks. Then, she noticed him.
He crouched against the inner wall, facing the doors. Regina might have charged past him if she hadn’t stopped to admire the male musicians. He was well-disguised, but his eyes were too round for a human being, and his skin had a bronze sheen to it that made her gaze deflect off it uncomfortably, as if it was too bright to look at. By his casual dress he was one of the attendees, but she knew he wasn’t human.
Regina had seen bigger fire ants, but not much. This one had to be a soldier, six feet tall if he was an inch. He was sniffing the air. She could almost see the little antennae waving back and forth on his head. Darn it, the obscuring spells should have taken all the dragons’ scent out of the air! She’d have to refer the matter to Everette and have him scare up the wizards, but in the meantime, this clown was a solid threat to the convention as well as the conclave. What could she do?
He spotted her. His mouth opened in a way that no human being’s could and emitted a hiss.
Even if he hadn’t had anything to do with the power failure, she couldn’t leave him on the premises. Regina didn’t want to alarm the ordinary fans who were filing in. Some subtlety was called for.
She let her eyes widen as if she was terrified to see him. His round eyes narrowed slightly. This small female wouldn’t look like she was much of a threat.
Good, she thought. Reel him in.
She backed away slowly a couple of paces, then shot forward, heading for the ballroom. It ought to be completely empty at this hour. She could take care of him there.
The soldier stiffened as she ran past him. It would take a moment before the queen ant gave him orders through the ether, but the critters weren’t capable of that much complex thought. Within a heartbeat or two he came hauling after her. She gave a glance over her shoulder and flung open the door of the ballroom. It slammed against the inner wall.