by John Ringo
“Could he spell?” Larry asked, reading another manuscript.
“Yeah.”
“Good, send him a letter that we want to hire him as a slush reader.”
“I said it was bad,” the man said.
“Why should we have to be put through this?” Larry said, grimacing and tossing the manuscript on the floor. “That one doesn’t even deserve a rejection letter. It deserves anthrax in the envelope. Somebody hand me a bottle of foot powder. Teach him to submit that crap to me…”
Barbara read through a couple more of the manuscripts and found one that… wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, but that might be taste. She supposed it was “combat science fiction” since it involved a fair bit of shooting. But she didn’t think much of the tactics and the characters seemed a bit flat.
“This might be okay,” she said, looking at Angie.
“Lemme see,” Angie said, picking it up.
Barb went back to reading and heard an occasional snort over her shoulder.
“Pier would love this one, Larry,” Angie said after a moment. “Get this, the enemy is radical greens…”
“Oh, God, not again,” Larry said, laughing. “Are they over-industrialized despite being serious environmentalists?”
“Absolutely,” Angie chuckled. “Wooden stock characters, big-titted women to be saved, not one bad guy with a clue and the prose is mostly banal at best.”
“We should send it to Pier with our blessings,” Eric said, looking up. “Give them all the rope they needed to hang themselves.”
Barbara frowned and opened her mouth, then closed it.
“You really think that environmentalists would hyper-industrialize?” Larry asked from across the room.
Barb sensed a test question but she couldn’t figure out the exact answer to give.
“I was thinking of the Soviet Union, actually,” Barbara said. “It was supposed to be a worker’s paradise, and it was anything but paradise. Hell is more like it. If Dante had seen it he would have written the Ninth Level differently. So, yes, I could see environmentalists acting in that fashion. Can’t you?”
“No,” Larry said. “Is it any good otherwise?”
“There’s a plot,” Angie said, shrugging. “And the grammar’s okay. But the characters are pretty flat and the prose is so-so. No real style to it. I wouldn’t have made it past the first page.”
“Toss,” Larry said. “The next thing it will be radical abortionists with an overpopulation problem.”
“Like China?” Barb asked, raising an eyebrow.
“China’s got its population under control,” Eric said, looking up. She suddenly realized that most of the people in the room had stopped reading and were looking at her.
“They’ve still got a higher growth rate than Europe or America,” Barbara said, ticking off items on her finger. “They have a huge imbalance in males, which will probably change that. But they’re already importing brides, which will tend to redress that in the long term. They have an official one child rule that’s regularly flouted by the privileged or anyone who can bribe the right officials and they have the highest rate of abortion in the world. They’re radical abortionists with an overpopulation problem. That is no more unlikely than radical greens with a pollution problem, which was really what was mentioned in the story.”
“Is it the population problem or the abortions that bother you?” Larry asked, frowning.
“The abortions,” Barb said. “When women abort babies just because they’re female, I have a problem with that. I, personally, have a problem with abortion, period. It’s simply infanticide a priori.”
“So you’d like to see Roe versus Wade reversed?” Angie said, a touch angrily.
“Roe was bad case law,” Barbara replied, shaking her head. “Let it be legislated.”
“A woman’s right to her body is inviolate,” the Asian-American girl on the floor snapped.
“So is the right of every person to live,” Barb snapped right back. “Including that unborn child in the womb. It’s a child. Infanticide, whether a priori as in abortion or after the fact as often happens in China is wrong. If you don’t want the child, give it up for adoption.”
“Some people can’t bear children well,” Angie said. “My sister-”
“If that’s provable, then it is different,” Barbara said, sharply. “But too often it’s used as an excuse. So you’re pregnant. Get over it. Have the baby and get on with your life. But you should let the child choose to do the same.”
“Hey, Barb,” the man on the bed said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t we take a walk?”
“Probably a good idea,” Barb said, coming to her feet.
“Especially since I’d never hit a lady,” Larry said, nastily. “Otherwise I’d kick your ass.”
“Really… ?” Barb said softly, then sighed. “Never mind. I’m sorry if I have caused you offense. Please excuse me.”
She turned and quickly walked to the door and out.
“I haven’t seen Larry that angry in a long time,” the bearlike man said, following her out.
“I can’t believe I lost my temper,” Barb said, breathing in and out for calm and saying a small prayer for forgiveness.
“Larry can get under people’s skin,” the man admitted. “I’m Bob Dorr, by the way.”
“Barb Everette,” Barb said as they got on the elevator. “So what do you do, Bob?” she added, punching for the ground floor.
“I’m an illustrator,” Bob replied. “General graphics and stuff. I do some of the illustration in Larry’s mags.”
“And I suspect you agree with him, politically,” Barb said.
“Generally,” Bob admitted. “Still looking for a fight? Or do I have to hold you off the ground until you calm down?”
“I think that was the thing that made me angriest,” Barb replied as they exited the elevator and she looked around. “The assumption that he could have kicked my a… butt. What ever happened to equality?”
“Well,” Bob said, carefully. “I think he was probably thinking that he out-weighed you by a good eighty or ninety pounds.”
“I suppose that must be it,” Barb said, pleasantly. “Isn’t there supposed to be a martial arts demonstration tomorrow?”
“Yesss…” Bob said.
“I don’t suppose Larry’s going to be attending?” she added, sweetly.
“Why?” Bob asked.
Barbara considered the question, then lifted into the air in the Dance of the Swallow, carefully missing Bob with all five strikes, then ruffling his hair before she hit the ground. The large man had barely been able to take a defensive stance before she landed on her feet and bowed mockingly.
“Because if he had decided that it was okay to hit a lady, that would have been… interesting,” Barb said, bowing again and then turning and walking away.
Chapter Twelve
What do you know about Kay Goldberg?” Barbara asked Greg as they were having dinner the next morning. She’d gone back to bed after the interesting talk the previous night and she tactfully didn’t mention that Janea had come in just after dawn. Or that Greg had a hickey on his neck.
Through the window of the restaurant she could still see the snow coming down. Conditions had come together to create the perfect snowfall and they were already closing roads all over Roanoke. Everyone assured her that they’d be open by Monday and they wouldn’t get stuck over in the hotel. But she was glad she was inside; it was seriously snowing.
“Not much,” Greg said, yawning and then taking a sip of coffee. “Why?”
“She knows about Special Circumstance,” Barb said, as soon as Janea had taken a sip of coffee. The dancer didn’t quite spit it out.
“What?” they both said, simultaneously.
“What I said,” Barbara replied. “And she’s got a background. At a guess, Shin Bet or Mossad.”
“You’re kidding,” Greg said. “She’s a sports writer who does some mystery. She’s from Charlotte.”
“She lives in Charlotte,” Barb said. “I live in Mississippi. I’m not from Mississippi. Five gets you ten Goldberg’s not her real name. And she’s a… what’s that term Daddy uses? Oh, she’s a player. Or she was. She’s going to give us a list of potential suspects sometime today. She knew I was with Janea, and you, and she knew my last name. I didn’t give it to her, I hadn’t mentioned it in public except to check in. But she knew it. What does that tell you?”
“Interesting,” Greg said, getting over his shock. “Do you think she has any connection to the investigation?”
“I hope not,” Barbara said. “Because I told her about it. I wouldn’t have if I had the slightest thought she did. I wanted to know if she had any ideas. All she said was that she knew a lot about her fans and would give us a list of potential suspects. You probably should have talked to her directly.”
“I might,” Greg said, thoughtfully. “After I call the Bureau.”
* * *
Not having anything else to do after breakfast, Barbara wandered back to the Dealers’ Room. She wandered over to the sword dealer’s booth but he was with a customer.
“I’d like to apologize for yesterday,” she said to the man when the customer had wandered away with a bag full of leather stuff she wasn’t willing to admit she recognized.
“It’s not problem,” he said, smiling. He was wearing contacts that made his eyes black except for silver irises. They were truly bizarre. “I get migraines sometimes, too. They can come on really quick. My name’s Mack, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Barb said, smiling back. “I did feel I needed to apologize, though. I almost dropped the sword.”
“Not even close,” Mack said. “More like you couldn’t let it go.”
“It’s a beautiful sword,” Barbara said. “And you do very good work. Take care.”
“You too, God lady,” Mack said.
“Why do you say that?” Barb said, pausing as she was about to leave.
“It’s nice to meet a Christian lady that’s not a Bible-thumper,” Mack said, smiling. “But you wear it like a skin.”
“Oh,” Barbara said, puzzled. “Well, thank you.”
She continued around the circuit of the room and saw the brunette from the night before sitting at her book booth reading.
“Hello,” Barb said. “We never really got introduced. That’s a lovely blouse, by the way, it really goes well with your eyes.”
“Thanks,” the woman said, tilting her head to the side and smiling at Barbara. “I’m Candice.”
“I enjoyed last night,” Barb said, a crease appearing in her forehead. “The conversation was interesting.”
“You should have stuck around,” Candice said. “Folsom was really depressed when you left. You were the perfect lady for him.”
“I’m married,” Barbara pointed out, again.
“So is he,” Candice said, frowning. “Not very happily, but… Anyway, his thing is he likes to find… how’s he put it? ‘The best looking, least available, woman at the con and monopolize her.’ ”
“I’m not the best looking woman at the con,” Barb said.
“No,” Candice said, “there’s a redhead wandering around who’s really spectacular. But she looks… more available. And you’re probably next and you’re not. And he’s not by any stretch boring to be around. I was once one of the ladies he monopolized and it was an interesting night.” She saw Barbara’s face and sighed. “Talking. We stayed up all night, in a public place, talking.”
“He certainly seems popular,” Barb admitted.
“And he got that way fast,” Candice said, gesturing at a bookshelf. “From nobody to best-selling with multiple books out in less than three years. The term ‘phenomenon’ comes to mind. He just says he made a deal with the devil.”
“Deal with the devil?” Barbara asked, her eyes wide.
“It’s an expression,” Candice replied, shrugging. “Actually, Pier is very good with promoting new authors. And he’s a good writer.”
“I’ve got… things to do,” Barb said. “Besides sitting out in the cold. Although… it was interesting.”
“Folsom’s very good at holding court,” Candice said. “He even puts up with Baron when everybody wants to strangle him or at least ask him to get to the point. He even puts up with Mandy when you want to stuff a sock in her mouth.”
“I met Mandy last night, too,” Barbara said, pausing. “She had a lovely skirt.”
“Yes, she did,” Candice said, her eyes crinkling. “And you always compliment people.”
“It takes nothing and makes people’s lives a bit brighter,” Barb said. “You can always find something to compliment in a person, even if it’s their shoelaces.”
“I’m not that nice,” Candice admitted. “In fact, I’m not nice at all.”
“Yes, you are,” Barbara said, definitely. “Or, rather, you may not be nice but you are anything but bad or evil.”
“I’m all bad,” Candice said, smiling.
“You’re lying, too,” Barb replied. “There’s not a touch of evil to you.”
“You don’t know me very well,” Candice said, shaking her head.
“You’d be surprised,” Barbara contradicted. “You’ve had a rough life, you’ve got quite a few people you’d be happy to see dead. But you’ve never actually tried to arrange it. And you didn’t tell Baron to shut up or at least get to the point. Which a less nice person would have done. What happens within your mind and soul is not the definition of your personal evil.”
“And you’re a mind reader?” Candice asked, glaring at her.
“No,” Barb said. “I’m just a very good judge of character. Aren’t I?”
“I guess,” Candice said, frowning. “But I’d hate for anyone to begin thinking I was nice. So don’t spread it around. It would ruin my reputation. And Baron is… Baron. He’s always going to be a Sad Sack. He is the consummate momma’s boy. Although, at least he’s gotten a job where he’s not living at home all the time anymore. If you call selling water filters a job. But he’s apparently making money at it; he’s been able to go to more cons anyway. And being on the road gets him out from under Mom.”
“He’s on the road a lot?” Barbara asked, curiously.
“From what I hear,” Candice said, shrugging. “He sells and installs water filters. He’s from Ohio but his territory is in Virginia so he travels all over the state. Who knows, he might even cut the apron strings some day. But he’s got good points. He really wants to be helpful; it’s not just an act. If you need help, Baron is always right there pitching in. And a lot of the writers like him because if there’s nobody else they recognize at the con, they can always talk to Baron. He just… doesn’t have many social skills. Being willing to be social should count for something, I suppose. And I think if he didn’t have fandom he’d probably hole up in a tower somewhere with a rifle.”
“Do you know Sean very well?” Barb asked, filing the whole description away.
“Not much,” Candice said, shrugging. “He’s a former Marine. Lives in Virginia Beach and does something with the Internet. Goes to a lot of cons, especially ones with Duncan or Draxon. He’d had a live-in girlfriend for a while, but I guess they broke up.”
“So do those two always hold court outside?” Barbara asked. “Duncan and Draxon, that is?”
“Pretty much,” Candice replied. “There or in the Wharf Rat suite. But there aren’t any smoking rooms in the hotel so they generally stay out and freeze. I couldn’t hang so I left not long after you did. Especially with the snow. It’s seriously snowing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Barb said with a sigh. “They’re predicting over twenty inches just today. They say that it will clear by tomorrow and they can get the roads open, but right now we’re stuck. You’re a… Wharf Rat?” Barbara asked, changing the subject.
“That was a good slice of the Wharf Rats at the con,” Candice said. “I suppose I am, but I don’t really think of myself that wa
y.”
“And the gentleman on the ground with the notebook?” Barb asked. “The one with the minder, it looked like. It seemed like the group was… subtly ignoring him while including him I guess I’d say.”
“Oh, that was David Krake,” Candice said, laughing. “He’s a big writer for Pier Books, been writing since the 1960s when, as he puts it, he escaped from the hell of being an attorney. He comes to the cons but he really doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s writing and he can get really… blunt. He writes hard-core military fiction, has for years. Former Marine, in Vietnam, so he knows what he’s writing about. He’s got degrees in history, ethnology and Greek. Recently, he’s been trying to break into the fantasy market but his books are sort of limping along. I don’t know why, they’re really very good. He does a lot of research — he’s known for that — and his fantasies are really based on historical characters and myth, mostly Sumerian. The last one sold well, though. Hit the New York Times list anyway so the big account buyers are going for it. From what I heard they more than trebled their sales on the last book, which is unusual. But it happens.”
“You seem to know a lot about the people here,” Barbara said, smiling.
“I go to plenty of cons. Not just ones that the Rats prefer. I won’t say I know everybody in Southeastern fandom, but it’s close.”
“Selling books,” Barb said, gesturing around.
“It’s what I do,” Candice said, smiling. “I don’t work very well in offices; can’t handle the politics. I’ve found I do better working for myself.”
“There are a lot of Rats who were military,” Barbara said. “Were you?”
“No,” Candice replied, shrugging. “My husband is, though.”
