by Declan Finn
“Yeah,” Sean said. “Also mine.”
That fully caught Colonel Bradley's attention. “You get blown up, too?”
“Not me, my room. I have three rooms at this convention, under three different credit cards. The only one I don't sleep in is the one I rented under my name. I'm crazy, I'm not stupid.”
“Speaking of which,” Jesse James asked, not looking away from his computer screen, “why is everyone out to kill you lately?”
Sean shrugged. “Because I'm popular. No, seriously, do you want a list? I have about a dozen governments who want my head. Basically, anyone involved with that Vatican scuffle last year? They would all want my head. For all I know, President Barry put a hit out on me. And for that I apologize. I thought I would be clear during the convention. I didn't think there would be a lot of mercenaries kicking around, wanting to kill me in public. But I've apparently gathered the attention of every nimrod who doesn't mind casualties.”
Gary Castelo shrugged. “What are you apologizing for? I know guys who went in to defend the Vatican. Most everyone thought you were awesome. Or crazy. Mostly both. Blowback happens.”
“Yes, but I'm here to protect everyone at the convention.”
At which point, everyone else at the table laughed. Jesse James even looked away from his computer to laugh as well.
“Of course you can't protect us 24/7,” Colonel Bradley laughed. “We didn't ask, remember? Don't want it or need it.”
James scoffed. “Duh. Hell, my kids almost took out this douchebag running around. Seriously, what's your problem?”
“Catholic,” Rachel Hartley said. “Guilt runs in the gene pool.”
Omar Gunderson nodded, grabbing his side, where the stitches were. “And even I know I screwed up. My situational awareness was down, and unless you're giving me Stormtrooper body guards, which I refuse, it's not your problem.”
“From what I know,” Bradley added, “I think that Kovach kid is just sorry he didn't get his attacker himself.” The colonel contemplated that, grinned, and added, “I like that kid.”
“No kidding.” Sean was tempted to tell some stories about Kovach, but that was for later. “Listen, I don't like to do this, but I have to ask—Jerry Friedman?”
Gary shrugged, his shoulders moving like mountains in an earthquake. “What about him?”
“Can any of you think of a person who'd want him dead? Aside from fans of Heinlein?”
Omar shook his head. “Nah. Fans of Heinlein wouldn't be bothered, they would have done it decades ago. Now, they're more likely to go after the morons behind the Starship Troopers film.”
“God, I hated that,” James muttered.
“Who didn't?” Sean asked.
James gave a wry smile. “The people who made the direct-to-DVD sequels.”
“Gotcha.” He looked around the table. “What about you? All of you? I saw last year's Hubble Awards. That was all bullcrap.”
Gary shook his head. “Come on, Mister Ryan, look at my blogs. I knew it was going to happen. And I knew it was going to happen pretty much like that. When I started Tearful Puppies, the point was to make it evident that the leftists in charge had made the whole thing about their own little clique. I made it a point to get the nomination, they would swarm to attack me, I wouldn't get the award, and then I would get back to cashing very large paychecks.
“Now, look—five categories last year in which no awards were given, whether they had leftists nominated or not. I said the Hubbles were dominated by cliques that cared more about an author’s identity and politics than the quality of their work.” Gary shrugged. “All they did was prove me right.”
Rachel Hartley glared, obviously still upset. “We won the minute they lost their minds. Granted, I'd have liked Robin Whitehead to have won something. She deserved it. But the childish, immature mummies on parade out there carried on in a fashion that first graders would be embarrassed by. Their IQ isn't even above room temperature!”
Omar nodded sagely. “And, seriously, they threw women under the bus. I mean, there were top editors in their field who are women. They got the most votes of any editor ever in the history of their category! Nobody has ever gotten 1,200-plus, or 700-plus votes in Best Editor. That's historic! Their 'True Fandom' ruined it by giving out No Awards in the categories. The 'tolerant and inclusive True Fandom.' The people who want science fiction to be a 'safe place' for women. And they cheered when those women went beneath the bus. Either one of them got more votes on one-shots than ROT publishers ever did.” He gave Sean a look that said Can you believe this, and calmly stated, “That's just unreasonable. Don't you think?”
Rachel nodded, and continued. Though the angrier she got, the more her accent thickened to the point it sounded like she was about to talk about the “Moose and Squirrel.” “And when they No Avarded the entire Short Story category the audience finally booed, it vas all …” her voice shifted so that she was nearly incoherent. “Applause is appropriate, booing is not. Yes, there is a reason there is a boycott against ROT!”
Sean blinked. “Madam Hartley? Did you just have a mini-stroke?”
“I was mimicking Jerry Friedman.”
Sean frowned. He didn't think Friedman was that insane, but whatever. “How about you, Grand Colonel? What do you think?”
Bradley looked up from his guns. “About what? The Hubbles?” He laughed. “I never cared about them. Why should I? I'm actually a Hydrophobic Puppy. I wanted the things No Awarded. I have gone out of my way to be obnoxious and insulting just to get things nuked. Far as I'm concerned, this was a win. Five major categories given no awards at all? It's a good start. They want to burn down the house with themselves inside to keep us out? I've got no problem with that.”
Sean furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, burn the house down?”
“If a category is No Awarded two years in a row—if no awards are handed out at all—then the category is deleted. Imagine what happens if we got that for Best Novel?”
“So you're happy with everything that happened?” He looked back to Jesse James, who had already returned to his laptop. “And you, sir?”
He shrugged, not even looking up from the laptop. “I don't care about the Hubbles, really. The man who brought me into publishing deserved one more than anybody, and they couldn't be bothered giving him one. So screw 'em.” James closed the laptop, got up, and looked around. “I'm going to get back to the room and dress for the banquet tonight.”
“If you could wait for a few more minutes?” Sean asked. “If none of you would do it, who would?”
“I can't think of anyone,” Rachel said. “Let's face it, Jerry was a nobody with a history of pissing off everyone around him, but he could not get arrested now. He was a douche, yes, but irrelevant.”
“He's close to retirement,” Gary Castelo said. “His publisher is no longer working with him, ROT won't be bothered with him.”
“They have enough problems with keeping the doors open,” Omar added. “So yes, dealing with him at this point is just a way to keep all of their political friends close.”
Sean cocked his head to one side. “He has friends?”
“There are no enemies on the left,” Jesse James said. “That's mostly their motto. Appropriate, since that comes out of the French Revolution. If you want my opinion? Friedman might have just pissed off some random nutbar at the convention. Which isn't that impossible. After all, who would have killed him? Johnny Prada?”
“You make it sound like that's impossible.”
“It is,” Rachel Hartley told him. “Think about it this way. After Prada had made a success with his first book, Friedman took Prada under his wing.”
“Yeah,” Castelo said, “Prada loved the guy.”
Sean frowned. “You don't mean that in a dirty way, do you? Because Friedman came off a little—”
Rachel smiled. “Gay? He was. But no, there was nothing like that. Prada is married with a kid or two. No, there shouldn't have been anything going
on. We would have heard. Ours is a small island. The woman who wrote the feminist King Arthur myth?”
“I heard about her and her child molesting ways. What about it?”
“Everyone knew about it while it happened, and knows about it now, but she was on the correct side of thing. Just remember that.”
“And now the master is going out,” Sean stated, “and the student is getting a payday.”
“That?” Castelo said. “Nah. That's not a payday. What's he making again? A little over three million for thirteen books? That's only $230K per book. They're not expecting James Patterson or Stephen King-level money. Take out taxes, he might have enough to feed a family of four in New York. Maybe five, if they scrimp a bit. It's not a payday, it's more like a public show of support so ROT can pretend that he's a big deal, if they can afford it.”
Sean heard the qualifier. “They can't?”
“It'll help if they could make their money back on him,” Jesse James added. “Breaking even is always a good plan. Whether or not they're even trying is a different conversation. Prada has to start by getting the books out in the first place.” James started moving around his fellow writers at the table, breaking for open ground. “If that's all, the banquet is sooner rather than later.”
“Sure.” Sean looked to the others. “James makes it sound like Prada was a better murder victim than Friedman ever was.”
Chapter 16: Fine Dining
Sean Ryan stepped outside the banquet hall for WyvernCon, wearing his tuxedo. He treated it as a black tie affair, and he wasn't the only one. Even Jesse James had changed for the occasional. He no longer wore his khaki utili-kilt. James had a black tie, suit jacket … and black kilt.
Some people like having a brand, I guess.
Sean stood, watching the people come through, trying to remember faces as they passed. He didn't want to be caught off guard again. The sniper that afternoon was already too close a call for his liking. His entire plan had relied on moving too fast for any sniper to risk a head shot. Had the sniper been better, he wouldn't have been around for the rest of this convention to be an issue. As it was, his chest hurt like a bastard.
Yay.
As the guests plowed past him, Sean occasionally glanced down at his phone. It showed a sketch by Galadren of the sniper. With a black widow's peak and darker, bushy eyebrows, he wore a goatee, and had a strong chin beneath the beard, with penetratingly dark eyes. They had reasoned his height as five-foot eleven-inches.
At least I know what I'm hunting. Or what's hunting me.
Sean looked up. The Puppy-kicking contingent came towards him as one unit. NKVD, S. Typhoon Teapot, the publishers Smith-Smythe-Smits, and Johnny Prada, who couldn't have bothered dressing out of his tweeds for the occasion. Terry Smith-Smythe-Smits had dressed in solid pink, from the top of her tiara to the toes of her flats. Sean wondered if she had tripped and fallen in a cotton candy factory. The other was also dressed in pink, only it was a suit with a white satin tie.
At least, Sean assumed that Patty was dressed in the suit and Terry was in the dress.
Kendall Adler was right behind them, teetering on stiletto heels.
I'd rather have stiletto knives, Sean thought.
Terry stopped dead, looking in her purse as though she had forgotten something. Terry looked back at Adler and said, “I'm sorry, Kendall, could you be a dear and head back to your room? I must have left my—” She leaned over and whispered in Adler's ear. Adler nodded, turned around, and walked off.
Sean rolled his eyes, and waved the horde inside.
A half-hour of herding cats later, Sean himself strode into the hall.
Sean surveyed the room, and was happy to see that someone took his advice, creating a dais at each end of the room. On one end of the room were all of the Puppies—though he had to correct himself as far as Jesse James was concerned, especially if he didn't care about the Hubbles. James was not on the dais, but nearby, dining with his family. The two teenagers looked more like adults, both girls dressed like young women, and his wife, Barbara, Queen of all things Goth, was dressed in solid black.
On the dais, it was Rachel Hartley, Gary Castelo, Colonel Bradley, and Omar Gunderson. Hmm. Where's Kovach?
Sean spotted Kovach off to the right of the dais, as far into the corner as possible. There was his wife, all red hair and martial artist's body.
Sean fingered his wedding ring, and knew he should call Inna before the night was over.
He looked to the other end of the dais, and the anti-Puppies. In the center sat the publishers of ROT—Patty and Terri Smith-Smythe-Smits—and they both actually looked like a man and a woman instead of two gender-neutral mannequins. S. Typhoon Teacup and NKVD sat side by side, on the left of the Rot publishers, and Johnny Prada had the seat to their right.
Sean frowned, noting two empty chairs next to Prada. I can see one being empty, but two? No, there shouldn't even be one. Friedman's chair—if he ever had one—would have been removed. I wonder if Moshevsky had problems getting here. And where's Adler? Sean glanced at his watch. They're both an hour late.
Sean tapped his earbud. “Someone go to the Hilton, I think that's where I stashed the Punters. If we have any Stormtroopers there, I need two to go to the room of Kendall Adler of ROT publishing, and check on Fred Moshevsky. They're on the top floor with the rest of the guests, and that requires a special key to get to the floor, so talk to the front desk before you go up. Just make sure they're still alive.”
“Yes sir,” came the answer. “You have a good time at the banquet.”
“Unlikely,” Sean answered. “Who is this, by the way?”
“Moses Lambert, 501st Stormtrooper regiment, Petty Officer first class, retired, sir.”
Sean gave an amused scoff. “Don't 'sir' me, I work for a living. Let me know if something comes up. I—”
Sean stopped. Limping into the room was Fred Moshevsky, looking something like a dressed-up lab assistant for Doctor Frankenstein. The hump over his right shoulder seemed to be bothering him even more now.
“Cancel the lookout for Moshevsky,” Sean told Lambert. “He just dragged his sorry ass in here.”
“Confirmed,” Lambert said. “Signing off.”
Sean frowned, studying the rest of the room. Moshevsky limped over to his correct area, then hopped onto the dais before taking his seat.
Sean raised a brow. I'm trying to figure out if he's got new orthotics in his shoes, or has better mobility in some areas than others.
He looked over the rest of the hall. It was relatively calm. He was almost surprised. But then, the room seemed entirely divided into political ideologies. The fun wouldn't start until there was interaction between the two groups.
Then I have to break out my taser.
“Excuse me, sir?” came a gentle, lilting voice next to him.
Sean turned. At his shoulder, there was a tiny slip of a woman. She was Asian, with a broad, smiling face. Her deep brown hair was combed back on her right side, and covered her left, going diagonally past her eye. Her glasses were wire-framed, and she had cute, dangly earrings. She wore an outfit too long to be considered a little black dress. Sean was grateful he didn't turn around too fast. She looked like if he had collided with her, he would have broken her. She wasn't even five-feet tall, and a size two, at best.
“May I ask if you are Mister Ryan?” she continued.
Sean turned on his smile, and tried hard to maintain it. He didn't want to be distracted, but playing nice was required. “Yes, I am. And you are?”
“I am Cryomancer,” she said, the lyrical nature of her voice made the last vowel turn up, almost as though she was asking a question. “Part of the Puppies?”
“Ah.” Sean gave a slight bow at the waist. “Yes, I had heard of you. I hope you are enjoying your stay at WyvernCon?”
Cryomancer beamed. “Oh, yes, I am. Greatly. I also appreciate your security arrangements for me. The Stormtroopers who have been with me all day have been most helpful
.”
Sean nodded, spotting the two guards standing back a bit. It was odd seeing the two guards with a woman who was dressed in a costume that was either Japanese schoolgirl, or Donald Duck's sailor outfit, he couldn't tell. “Good. I didn't want anything should happen to you. Especially since you're the only person here who has a potential threat directed against them.”
Cryomancer nodded a little. “I know. But I cannot imagine Crabs showing up, can you?”
He blinked. “Wait, who?”
“Crabs? Yama Marshman?”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Is that his actual nickname?”
“He has many internet handles, most of which have been banned from commenting at most websites,” Cryomancer explained. “But most of us believe that Crabs suits him best.”
“Can't imagine,” Sean said wryly. “How damaged do you think he is?”
“Very,” she said simply.
“He the only one you have anything to worry about?”
“Only if we have terrorists here,” she said. “Islamofascists do not like me.”
Sean cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
She smiled brightly. “Read my SWATting. It did not quite happen like that, but I live on a military base.”
Sean blinked. This should be interesting. “I'll read it right away.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a quick hug, and darted away.
Sean frowned, confused, then pulled out his phone, and called up Matt Kovach's A Pius Geek blog, and looked for Tearful Puppies Bite Back.
* * * *
Two months ago
In the outback of Australia, near a pleasant little house in the middle of nowhere, a car pulled up, and everyone in it disembarked quietly. The back door was kicked in. Multiple men in balaclavas stormed in, AK-47s at the ready. Instead of a hallway, they found themselves in a small pantry, leading to a kitchen. The first intruder was promptly nailed with three kitchen knives to the chest and staggered back.
“She's armed!” the leader called out in Arabic.
Cryomancer stood at her kitchen counter, quickly running out of knives from the block. She stood at a very a petite 4'8." She shoved her long black hair out of her eyes and readjusted her librarian glasses. In her right hand, she wielded a frying pan. “Don't startle me like that!”