by Declan Finn
Suddenly, a short, stout black woman leaped behind NKVD's chair. “Waaaah. I need a safe space!”
Sean growled. Where the bloody blue Hell did this freak come from? “Oh, what fresh hell is this?”
“S. Typhoon Teacup,” Charles Martinez answered.
“Ugh. Of course she is.” Sean shook his head. “What's her deal?”
“Haven't you heard?” Martinez studied Sean a moment, then shrugged. “Typhoon over here has been leading a boycott against all white straight male authors.”
Sean flinched, as the stupid tore through him. “Oh for the love of—” He grabbed his phone from his pocket, and quickly tapped in her name.
“Don't worry, S.,” NKVD said. “Most of these are our old white guys. They've already been fixed.”
Teacup—Such a name, Sean thought—poked her head out from behind the chair. “Oh. Okay.”
Sean looked over at Teacup as she climbed onto the couch with the Smith-Smythe-Smits, and said, “You know, if you're so against straight white male authors, shouldn't you be with the Puppies? I mean, their leaders this year are three women, Gary Castelo founded it, and he's Portuguese—”
Typhoon sneered, apparently having found her composure. “They're not the right kind of fans!”
The academic, Prada, nodded sagely. “Quite. Hear hear. I concur.”
Sean glanced back at his phone. “Here's what I don't get, Teacup. In your own public statement, if you're white, that's bad, but if you're female you can still write good stories. If you're male, that's bad, but if you're not white you can still write good stories. If you're straight, that's bad, but if you have some sort of complicated gender-relationship that requires you to invent a new set of vocabulary words and then get upset at people who don't immediately understand what the heck you're talking about, then you can still write good stories…” Sean gestured at Prada, Martinez and Friedman, “They're old straight white guys!”
Prada shook his head, disapprovingly. “Come now, let's not be presumptuous.”
Martinez pulled his cap over his eyes. “Guys, listen, about the tone we've been taking—”
Prada scoffed. “Well, what do you think we should do, Charles? You're not offering any alternatives. You're just saying we should all be 'reasonable.' I'm very reasonable. After all, I helped most of these books win, didn't I?
Sean's brows shot up at that, but before he could say anything, S. Typhoon Teacup interjected, “What does reason have to do with anything important?”
Martinez: “Well, I think we should approach this like authors. Calm, rational, well-crafted arguments—”
Teacup: “With lots of talking points! About how they're all racist, sexist, and bigoted! I bet we can find some great memes over at Folder 666.”
Charles RR Martinez shudders. “Those people? Don't be stupid. No, we should fight as authors, not as Internet meme-bots! And what have you done lately, Johnny? You're only known for writing Star Trek fanfic.”
Prada glowered. “But at least I don't kill off 92.45% of my characters!”
Sean waited another minute before he simply stood and walked out.
* * * *
Mercenary, assassin, and part-time terrorist Michael DeValera sighed from the coffee stand right behind the Puppy Punters. He was starting to feel sorry for Sean Ryan. So sorry that he would consider shooting him as a mercy killing.
One that I get to be paid for, DeValera thought with a smile.
It would be so worth it.
* * * *
Yvonne Wicklund was having a pleasant conversation in the bar while working on her notebook when she was suddenly pulled around.
“You didn't tell me they were all insane,” Sean accused.
Yvonne shrugged. “That depends on what side of the aisle you're on. Some people might think you met with the calm and relaxed of the Anti-Puppies. At least Artie Chow wasn't in on that meeting.”
“Who?”
Yvonne bunched up a corner of her mouth. “It's delicate.”
Sean looked at the person she was talking to. “Give us a few minutes, would you …” He looked the man up and down, checking the army uniform. “Colonel?”
The older man smiled, which, on him, always looked more like baring teeth. His bright blue eyes twinkled with amusement. The man's head looked like it had been carved from granite, and Sean was a little worried about the possibility that he would ever have to headbutt him—Sean might suffer a skull fracture. “No need,” the Colonel said, in a voice like gravel spread out over sandpaper. “I know about Artie.”
“Great.” Sean looked back and forth between the two. “Now someone can just tell me.”
Yvonne cleared her throat. “You see, Artie is famous for being on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire.”
“And he's been insufferable ever since,” the Colonel rumbled. He gave one loud laugh that was so dismissive, Sean almost felt it. “You at least know about GamerGate, right?”
“I've heard of it,” Sean admitted, the way someone would admit to being an escort to pay the bills. “It's more politics, only with trying to play gender theory BS with video games. What of it?”
“Chow is with the SMURFs.” Yvonne explained, “and the Anti-GamerGate crowd.”
The Colonel chuckled, and slugged back his bourbon. “And when Artie stamps his feet, people get bomb threats.”
Sean gaped. “What? Bomb threats? You've gotta be kidding me.”
The Colonel smiled. “Yup. Welcome to the party, pal.”
Sean groaned. “Great. I guess I should bite the bullet and ask, who are you, Colonel—” Sean glanced at the nameplate “—Bradley?”
Yvonne laughed. “Sean Ryan, let me introduce you to Colonel George Bradley, author for Agnes O'Day's publishing house.”
Sean rolled his eyes and studied Bradley a little closer. The man's face was sharp and stern, with close-cropped black hair, only lightly touched with gray. The strangest part were his eyes, which were the brightest blue that Sean had seen since the last time he looked in the mirror.
“Well, Colonel Bradley,” Sean said, “I guess we're all stuck with each other. When do the rest of the Puppies arrive? Mournful or otherwise?”
Bradley shrugged. “They should be here tomorrow.”
“Great. Just great.” Sean eyeballed the uniform again. “Are you always in uniform?”
“Aren't you?” the Colonel retorted. “The convention hasn't even started yet, and you're already carrying.”
Sean smiled. It was nice to have someone who could spot at least some of the arsenal he carried. “You know what they say, Colonel. If you're not used to carrying, prepare to be carried, by pallbearers.”
“Never heard of that one,” Yvonne replied. “Who says that?”
Sean grinned. “I do.”
* * * *
Sean fell into the couch in his suite at the Marriott. “What do all of you people think?”
Athena Marcowitz, an Afro-Irish-Cubano woman who stood 6'2” in her stocking feet, laughed as she poured herself some coffee. She was sort of like Mariah Carey, if she was that tall, and mixed with enough backgrounds to confuse a Mormon genealogist. “Now you want to know what we think, Sean? We're already here, and we accepted the job after you took that meeting. It's a little late.”
Everyone in the suite smiled at that. And this was a strangely diverse little group, even by the world Sean grew up in.
“Face it, lad,” Terrence Boyle said. “At least you know it could be much, much worse.”
Boyle is the one Sean often referred to as his “IRA man,” even though the label might have been too complimentary for what he really was, a wannabe Michael Collins. He had a bottle of Guinness in one hand, and used the other to push back his reddish-brown hair. His cheekbones protruded against the leathery skin like boulders, and his deep brown eyes belied an intelligence he didn't often show.
“For once, I'm with Boyle,” Brian Levine added. The six-foot black man with shoulders like football pads kept one eye
on his knitting (a bright blue baby blanket) as he continued. “We had several definite threats show up at the same time. Right now, the problem boils down to a few screaming mimis whining that their feelings are hurt. Worst threat? Someone calls in a bomb scare.”
“If I had known that, I would have at least invested in some bomb detectors,” Sean grumbled. He brought his glass of Bailey's to his lips, and sipped. He wanted to guzzle a bottle after the conversations he just had, but that would be bad form until the job was over.
Boyle smiled. “I'll see to it, lad. I know some people.” He winked.
“I thought I killed off 'your' people when we last met.”
Boyle shrugged. “Not all of them. And you didn't kill all that many.”
Sean grinned. “Exactly.”
“But they're all insane, no question,” Athena added, going back to the original conversation. She sat in the armchair opposite Brian, keeping Sean in the middle, lest he suddenly make a break for sanity. “And let's face it, you're going to want the money, if only because you don't want to go into arms dealing.”
Sean barked out a laugh. That much was true, at least. After all, if he sold all of the guns left over from “the Pius Job,” he could be the world's biggest arms dealer. As it was, he only occasionally sold pieces to the people who fought alongside him during that fracas—including the NYPD, and a very specific Mafia family who had earned a few religious indulgences.
But he was cash poor, and armament rich.
“Any specific ideas on the Puppy Punters? SMURFs? Whatever they're called?”
“My money?” Athena started. “The publishers with three last names. The Smith-Smythe-Smits couple. You reported the entire conversation, and they just dropped off in the middle. I'm concerned when people who are supposed to wield that much power go silent.”
“I agree,” Boyle added, “but in this case, I'd add this Charles RR Martinez fellow. In a horde of nutcases, he's the sane one? Nah, I don't buy it. It's always the quiet ones you have to look out for. Trust me, back in Belfast, the ones screaming in a pub were the ones who got into fights, the quiet ones were the guys who blew stuff up.”
“You can also make the same case for Prada, the 'academic,'” Brian Levine said as he pearled one, knit two, and repeated. “He talks a game that's at least not hysterical, but the way he dismissed any rational argument? That concerns me.”
Sean groaned, and leaned back, just resting his head against the back of the chair. He could do an insane amount of physical activity, and did at least three hours of it a day, but one deranged conversation made him want to just curl up into a ball and sleep for the next week.
“Overall, threat assessments?” he asked.
“Keyboard commandos,” Athena said. “I've put in my vote, but honestly? I can't see these guys taking on a single one of the other side. Have you looked at the other side? At least two of them make guns, at least another four of them carry concealed, and that's not even counting the one who's a gun dealer and range owner.”
The IRA man chuckled. “True. I've seen that Gary fella. What is he, Seven-foot?” Boyle shook his head. “I wouldn't take him on for a bet, unless it was a kilometer out with a rifle.”
Sean nodded. “True. Though I think I'm going to want more research into all of this. Backgrounds, personalities, fetishes, the works. This Artie Chow fellow makes me particularly nervous. Mostly because he didn't show up at all. He could be here without us knowing about it.”
He sighed, took another sip … and then looked around. “Um, guys? Where's Galadren?”
Chapter 5: Middle Earth Puppies
Galahad Wren usually went by the name Galadren, or by his sobriquet, “Middle Earth's Most Wanted Elven Assassin.”
No, this isn't part of the joke.
Technically, Wren suffered from a form of paranoid schizophrenia, though he generally seemed to enjoy every minute of it.
And here, he was at home.
His hair was naturally blond, and it had been grown out long, down to the tips of his shoulder blades. Most people who saw him always noted that his hair was simply immaculate all the time. He was slender and graceful, never any disarray. He was a glowingly handsome sort, with a perfectly circular face, and deep blue eyes so distracting that most people never even noticed that the tips of his ears were slightly pointed. What everyone else noted about him was he always wore interesting clothing: generally white shimmering clothes, as if the Renaissance festival was designed by someone on hallucinogenics.
Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin happened to be about 5’9”, with enough sleek muscle to make jaguars back away slowly. His daily routine consisted of eating his own homemade Muesli, with enough healthy food to make most health food freaks run the other way. He did everything short of picking fruits and harvesting oats personally—though he thought the Quaker Oats man was one of the oddest looking Elves he’d ever seen, and he wouldn’t even discuss the Keeblers (he had long ago figured that they were actually wood sprites, and someone was just too lazy to make that distinction).
To say that he fit in perfectly at a science fiction convention was understatement of the first order.
Right now, he was perched on the top floor of the Marriott, looking down from the railing, into the floors below. The interestingly colorful people of the convention were already starting to filter in. He had seen at least one person with a set of big purple fairy wings—or was it more like a butterfly? There was even at least one person wrapped in aluminum foil. There were also groups of sword carriers, bow and arrow wielders, and six sets of gun owners.
“Dunedain Ryan,” he said without looking, “what brings you up here?”
Sean didn't exhibit a hint of surprise that Galadren heard him coming. It was like being crazy improved his senses. “I needed to get away from the crazy.”
Galadren gave a hint of a smile. “Practicing irony?”
“I have a lot of irony in the fire, yes,” Sean said with a smile. He stood next to Galadren on the railing, looking down. “You know I generally don't like to ask, but how crazy are you?”
Galadren still focused on the straight shot down the atrium. “I am perfectly sane. I am a ten-thousand-year-old Elf who stayed in your world to continue the fight against the endless minions of Sauron and Melkor. Why?”
“Just curious.” He looked over the little activity going on—mostly people setting up booths for the convention. “You looking at anything in particular?”
“Yes. I have spotted three groups of people who may be carrying weapons,” Galadren stated. “You did tell me that you have people after your head, did you not?”
Sean nodded, then chuckled. “I never questioned your memory, just your sanity. Any pan out to be threats?”
“So far, just peddlers bringing their collapsible shops with them,” the Elf answered. “I await the day when tavern keepers can bring their establishments with them.”
“Give them time,” Sean muttered. “We have facial recognition running nonstop with the hotel cameras, and I've even reached out to some friends who are watching for any unusual activity in the world of killers.”
“But this will not be like New York.”
Galadren was correct about that. At C-Con, the convention was swarming with people, but fewer and more manageable crowds, going in and out of some isolated buildings in the middle of a college campus in the backwoods of Long Island.
While, yes, all five hotels were under the control of WyvernCon, the hotels couldn't make sure that everyone who applied for a room was a Con goer, which meant that Sean couldn't lock out anybody from coming in or out of the hotels. They were basically public spaces that could be walked into or out of. He couldn't set up metal detectors, instigate searches on anyone (and there was no way he'd strip-search someone who was Cosplaying as a Sumo Wrestler), and there were a great many people he couldn't kill—like reporters covering the convention.
On the other hand, Sean had a lot of backup. The Stormtroopers on patrol
were real law enforcement and military personnel. At C-Con, security had boiled down to glorified babysitters, maybe some extra eyes and ears—they could, at best, call in the cavalry. WyvernCon's security could probably handle most extraneous problems on their own, without any problems or need to call Sean for assistance.
“Are you a liability here?” Galadren asked. “Especially with the mercenaries who want you dead.”
“I can't imagine I would be,” Sean told him. “What idiot would start an open firefight in the middle of a crowded convention just to get one guy? Political nutters, maybe. These are mercs. They want to get paid, and they don't want to get caught.”
Sean shook his head and looked straight ahead, trying to get out of his slight vertigo from watching all of those floors from this height.
He barely spotted the man on the other side of the hotel walkway pulling out a rifle from a golf bag.
Well, crap.
Before Sean could point this out to the murderous Elf, Galadren raised his bow, and drew an arrow. It was nocked before the man on the other side of the room could even swing the rifle to his shoulder.
Galadren fired two arrows in rapid succession. The first one landed in the stock of the rifle, shattering the wood. The second arrow landed in the man's shoulder, pinning him to the wall.
By the time the second arrow was in the air, Sean was already on the move, running along the rail for the nearest ramp to the elevators in the center of the atrium. It was the fastest way to get to the opposite end of the floor.
By the time Sean got there, the pincushion was working himself free from the wall. Sean simply jumped onto the rail, pushed off, and drop-kicked into the shoulder wound.
The mercenary cried out in pain, and Sean swept his legs out from under him. He pinned him to the ground by stomping on the shoulder again, and putting his 1911 in his face.
“Hi,” Sean said. “I have to ask, personal or business?”
“Business!” the man screamed. “Just business.”
Sean grinned. “Good. So's this.”
He stomped his head three times.
Galadren appeared at Sean's shoulder. “How safe are you here?”