by Declan Finn
Today, the sturdily-built brunette wore a black dress, and her tactical umbrella hung from her chair. “I am a former member of the Science Fiction Writers of America, also from Portugal, and I'm the author of three different series. According to Folder 666, I too am a White Mormon Male. With a great rack.”
Kovach sat at the end of the table. “Now, let's start simple. I have a philosophy degree, and first order of business is to always define your term. Looking out at this standing room only event, when we ask about fandom being dead, we're obviously not talking about science fiction dying as a medium. What use of fandom do we even want to use?”
Jesse James grabbed the mic. “Personally, I prefer a definition of fandom that's simply, well, this. People who like a given genre coming together just to enjoy talking about it. It's a social gathering. Or at least, that's what it should be. Let's face it, after that, it becomes politics. And politics is all about power and control; sorry, is anyone here for that? Or are we here to have fun?”
Gary Castelo boomed out a laugh. “Politics isn't fun? Have you looked at a political protest at a college lately? That's the best reality TV ever.”
“Not really. I'd rather watch Drag Queens than Bernie or Hillary.”
“Same difference,” Sean muttered.
Castelo took the mic next. “Well, part of the 'problem' that is fandom is how many people try to use it as an exclusionary tactic. Let's face it, when someone starts saying 'You can't be a fan because you don't go to the right conventions, or read the right authors,' that's not fun. That's bullies kicking the nerds out of the clubhouse because they don't know the password.”
“Sadly,” Rachel Hartley said, “fandom has had a movement like this for several years. I won't say that all of fandom is like this, but this has been a growing minority within science fiction.”
Kovach nodded slowly. “Can you folks give examples of how this has been in general fandom? You know, if it's infiltrated professional or amateur organizations?”
All three of them laughed.
Jesse James laughed. “The wonderful world of writers, like every other organization, has fights. And back-stabbing, back-biting, and other backward thoughts, ideas and concepts.
“Then there's the SFWA, the Science Fiction Writers of America. If you haven't been brought in on this round of Inside Baseball, the SFWA has started appealing to one small, particular demographic, namely the political left. Now, this isn't even the 1990s Democrat I'm talking about. This is a very narrow translation of liberalism that most liberals would look at funny.”
Rachel Hartley nodded. “One story that meets their standards includes a world where the universe is filled with subservient men, the women rule everything, and there is peace throughout the world. Which is the funniest thing I've ever heard.”
Castelo nodded. “It's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for good fiction to meet SFWA standards. The SFWA has basically been on a purge lately, trying to silence or censor members. Almost everyone in the business is pissed about it. From Harlan to Gene. And Harlan is no conservative. But then, he's an old school liberal, the type where they may hate what you're saying, and they'll yell at you, but they also expect you to yell back … well, Harlan does, at least. These people? Are interested in nothing but shutting other people up.”
“In my case,” Rachel said, “I went partially indie, and SFWA went to war with Amazon.”
“Yes,” Jesse James drawled, “because pissing off the biggest distributor of your books is always a good idea.”
“And they started going after people I know for being sexist,” Hartley continued, “using that to censor them.”
Jesse James nodded. “Yup. Exactly. Of course, as we all know, using feminism as authority structure creates pedantic drivel in favor of a false narrative of multiculturalism – you know, 'We're going to shove this down your throat, and you will like it, because. Just because.' They want writers to effectively write stories about 'womyn,'—yes, with a Y—and gays, transgenders, African-Americans, native Americans, Asian peoples they have no idea about, but 'Hey Taoism sounds cool and Namaste, yo.' ” James shook his head. “You can view this a few ways. The rabbit hole, making a 'women only' race course—which is a thing, really—putting a Stalin-ish leash on their editors to make certain they're publishing the 'correct' things, or redefining 'literature' as whatever supports the current tint. No matter what you call it, it's not good for writing, storytelling, or the genre. If you wanted to say they're trying to destroy the genre, well, you wouldn't be the first. There's actually a movement dedicated to 'destroying' science fiction. There are Kickstarters dedicated towards making these politically correct nightmares in print. 'Women destroying science fiction,' is the actual title of one such project. This, of course, is a stupid idea for a book series, anthology, novel, what have you, if only because of actual SF written by women. Nora Roberts, when writing as JD Robb, has a science fiction murder mystery series set in the 2060s. You've got YA fiction, or Horatio Hornblower with Dragons, or JK Rowling.”
“But then,” Gary Castelo boomed, before Jesse James could take over the panel, “you have our publisher. And we take all sorts. Conservative, Libertarian, and at least one card-carrying Communist.”
“Unfair, but balanced,” Jesse James interjected.
“Each person will bring their own politics and philosophies to bear in their own novels, but usually not in a way that would piss off most readers. And they are making tons of money. Metric tons. They are everywhere, and always publishing.”
“The short version is,” Hartley said, “write good books, and no one will care what gender you are. Honest.”
Kovach cleared his throat and said, “Okay. It was mentioned earlier that this has been growing for a while. Want to give me an example?”
“Ever read that book that made King Arthur into feminist agit-prop?” Jesse James asked.
“No, but I've heard of it.”
“You also never heard about the accusations from her daughter that both the author of that book and her husband molested her growing up.” James looked around the room, watching, seeing that fact sink in. “They were child molesters, not only of their own daughter, but probably of other people's children. There were whispers about that for years before their deaths, but those rumors were always suppressed or hushed up by the very same people who want to co-opt the name of capital-F Fandom.”
This was the point where Sean Ryan said, “Excuse me, are you saying that there is a section of the publishing industry that covered up pederasty, just because an author wrote the right message in their fiction?”
“Yup. You. Betcha,” James answered, each word being another nail in the coffin of an author's reputation.
Now I understand why Castelo wasn't shocked that someone might want to take a slash at him. If these people he's against would do that just because they “have no enemies on the left,” murder isn't that far away. After all, that quote came from the French Revolution.
Chapter 9: Leveling Tokyo
As Sean Ryan left the panel on fandom, he almost ran into people coming from the ballroom across the hall. These people were wearing Greenpeace shirts (one advertising Soylent Green), PETA shirts (save the whales, kill the humans) and pro-abortion shirts (Feed the Baby to the Baby Dingo). There were a handful of people dressed as giant furry animals with spots of dubious origins on their costumes (some of them being led away on leads and chains).
Sean stopped short of running into Jerry Friedman, who was still dressing in an exaggerated, almost clownish outfit—a pink cravat, the green velvet jacket, and tan vest.
Sean sidestepped Friedman, looked at his outfit, and said, “What are you Cosplaying as? Oscar Wilde?”
The older author looked Sean up and down and shrieked, “Homophobe! You're just like Agnes O'Day!”
“One, never met her. Two, didn't know you were actually gay. Three, I grew up in Hollywood, so I'm certain I know more gay people than you do. Now step away, or be ende
d.”
Friedman scoffed, blustered, rallied, and stepped into Sean, swinging his finger into Sean's face. Sean grabbed the finger, bent it back, then brought his fist down like it was slamming on a table.
Friedman followed the finger down. Sean smiled. “Don't do that. Reflex. Bad things happen.”
The ballroom door opened again and Johnny Noah Prada, the academic, burst out. “Jerry! What are you doing, you bastard? Let him go.”
Sean merely arched a brow at Prada. “He comes at me again like that, and he won't be able to get up.” He looked at Friedman. “Also, homophobic means 'fear of the same,' implying that I'm afraid of you because you're like me.” He leaned in with an evil smile. “Trust me, buddy, you ain't nothing like me.” He shoved Jerry Friedman away. “Keep your dog on a leash, Prada, lest I spay him.”
Prada helped Friedman to his feet, and instead of just letting go, he drew his hand along the back of Friedman's shoulders. Sean noted a ring on Prada's left hand, and none on Friedman's. Friedman emitted a low-pitched whine as he cradled his precious finger.
They moved for the hallway's exit, Gary Castelo emerged from the ballroom, like a cross between a fog bank and a slowly moving mountain.
Jerry Friedman swung on Castelo. “You homophobic Mormon white male! You've co-opted our security, haven't you!” He slapped at Castelo's side—the exact spot where Castelo had been slashed.
Castelo grunted, and looked down at Friedman. “I did nothing to Mister Ryan here. I only introduced him to our side of the story. If you think that presenting our side is co-opting, you've got so many problems, I don't even know where to start.”
Friedman slapped at Castelo's side twice more. He wound up for a third, and Castelo grabbed the arm before Sean could.
“Three strikes is all you get, Jerry.”
“Hate crime! Hate crime!”
Castelo rolled his eyes, lifted Friedman up by his wrist with one hand, and dropped him near the doors. “Begone. Or else. You too, Prada.”
After they scurried away, Sean looked at Castelo. “And these two were the masterminds behind keeping control of the Hubbles? They couldn't mastermind their way out of a paper bag.”
“It helps that they've got most of ROT publishing on their side. Employees all get memberships to the convention attached to the Hubbles, and thus can vote. With a few thousand employees on their side, they game the system. Also, Tearful Puppies suggested five different items in each category. They had one thing to vote for—no award. It's easy to vote the slate when you have one thing on the slate. There's no question about why there's a boycott going on against ROT. But the real question is how Prada got that million-dollar deal with ROT.”
Sean frowned. “Indeed. Because he's carried their water for them during the whole Hubbles issue?”
“As I'm sure they'd say: prove it.”
Sean and Castelo stepped back to let the rest of the guests out of the Puppy-Punter panel. There were only a handful of people.
One of them was even dressed like Godzilla.
* * * *
Matthew Kovach sighed as he wandered through the hall of the Hyatt's International Tower. He was tired already. He could operate fine when he was on stage, on a panel, but it was draining to be in front of that many people.
And it's only Day one. By Monday, I'm screwed.
Kovach sighed as he got on the escalator. I've got some free time for the next three hours. I don't have a reading until tomorrow, which is followed by a signing. I'm sure I have a panel around two-ish.
There were two thumps behind him. He glanced up behind him, and was about to compliment the guy on his Godzilla costume as the right hand of Godzilla came up, almost like he was throwing a softball.
Kovach only caught the glimpse of a flicker of light. That was the only thing he needed for this instincts to kick in. He stepped forward on the escalator with his right foot, and ducked, causing the razor blade to miss. The author pivoted on the lower foot, bringing his other side to the next step down.
The razor came down as Godzilla came after him. Kovach intercepted it at the wrist with an overhead block with his left forearm, and drove his right fist into Godzilla's stomach. The author felt his fist sink into at least an inch of rubber.
Change tactics.
Kovach lowered his block enough for Godzilla to keep pushing with the blade, and the author redirected it, letting the arm with the razor slide down his arm, away from his face and body. Kovach followed the attacking arm with his hand, clamping down at the wrist. The author dropped his weight on the arm, slamming it into the escalator rail.
Kovach looked behind him. He took a step back to get more room between him and the razor, and found the floor coming to meet him.
Kovach pushed off the stairs, landing on the floor, and he burst back again as Godzilla tried to leap on him from the stairs.
Kovach blocked Godzilla's left hook, burst back again, this time bringing the razor with him. He locked his arm straight, and swept the razor down, low and away, bringing it up in front of him. Kovach wrapped his fingers around the handle, and ripped his nails along the glove of the costume, pulling the blade away.
Kovach then threw it away—he didn't want to waste time trying to cut through the costume.
At this point, he grinned broadly. His eyes went dark and cold, and he laughed.
Godzilla took a step back.
Kovach lunged for him, swinging right for Godzilla's rubber face.
Godzilla swung around, hurling Kovach off of him, and made a beeline for the escalator going up.
Kovach pulled himself out of his sprawl and ran for the stairs. The part of him that really liked this sort of thing had smelled fear. It wanted a piece of him.
Godzilla was already at the top of the stairs as Kovach pounded away after him. The author got to the top of the stairs, and nearly ran into Sean A.P. Ryan.
Sean caught him and swung him around, and Kovach nearly punched him. Sean ducked and said, “Nice try. Where's the fire?”
“Godzilla just came after me with a razor. It's down there.”
“A razor?”
* * * *
Galadren, “Middle Earth's Most Wanted Elven Assassin,” had been standing at the entrance to the skywalk for the better part of an hour, waiting on the Marriott side of the walkway. He was to one side of the water fountains, which created a space for him to stand without blocking traffic. He had spent most of that time fielding compliments and questions about his look and his bow.
The communications unit in his ear chirped to life. “Galadren, we have a possible suspect, in the Hyatt, perhaps coming your way. About six feet tall, dressed in a Godzilla costume.”
Galadren was already moving. He hopped onto the rail that ran along the wall leading to the skywalk, and then sprinted along the rail. “What is a Godzilla?”
Sean growled in frustration. “Looks like a green … dragon. Only the costume looks pretty damn cheap.”
Galadren kept running, hopping onto the back of a wheelchair that looked like it was designed for Mad Max, kicking off of a wall in order to bound around a corner, and grabbed a light fixture to swing onto the next rail.
It was a good thing he took that route. Everyone else in the skywalk had stopped to take pictures.
He stopped at the final corner as the skywalk turned into the Hyatt lobby. The creature that had been described to him was already trying to get through the skywalk, but had been stopped by the crowd.
Galadren looked at the creature called Godzilla, and quickly drew an arrow. “Halt, beast, or I shall dispatch you forthwith.”
The creature looked around, as though confused about who the Elf might have been referring to. It froze a moment, and turned, pushing its way back through the crowd into the lobby.
Galadren had cleared the sight lines, as dunedain Ryan had taught him, and loosed an arrow, pinning Godzilla's head to the wall.
Godzilla kept moving, the arrow pulling a massive tear in the back of its head.
Galadren frowned, briefly puzzled, then bounded after the creature, running along the rail, and finally leaping over the crowd, drop-kicking Godzilla in the head. Godzilla's head came off, and the beast kept running.
Galadren glowered, vaulted over a chain connecting a couple, and kicked the knees out from under Godzilla as it neared the stairs. Godzilla bounced a few times down the stairs, then rolled across the lobby a little. It pushed to its feet, and dashed around the stairs and the escalators.
Galadren growled, leaped onto the rails for the stairs, slid down it, and ran around the corner.
Godzilla had molted. The back of the rubber suit had given way and opened, leaving a hollow center.
Galadren looked around the floor. It was mostly populated by men and women in full-body coverings, in the shiny material called spandex.
Galadren cursed in Elvish.
Someone in a turtle costume with a mask around its eyes looked at him and said, “Dude, not cool.”
A guy in a red, white and blue outfit, carrying a shield, said, “Language.”
Galadren muttered to himself all the way up the stairs.
When he got to the top of the stairs, a woman said, “Hey, want to come to our room?”
Galadren looked at the woman. She wore a chain mail bikini, and a collar—the collar was connected to a chain, which was held by a man dressed in leather. The Elven assassin cocked his head at them and said, “Why would I?”
The woman gave him a smile that seemed out of place. “We can think of something.”
“Sorry, I cannot think of anything.” He heard rushing footsteps, and turned towards them. “Pardon me.”
“Room 222, Hilton!” she called to his back.
That was odd, he thought. He ran across the lobby, past the elevators, and ran into Sean Ryan and another man coming out of International Tower.
“Where'd he go?” Sean asked.
“He molted.”
Sean blinked. He took a quick moment, and said, “Dang it.” He tapped his earpiece. “Overwatch, did you have eyes on who came out of the Godzilla costume?”