It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  “How about you doggie bag it and have someone run a test on it?”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  All three of them turned to a demure little man wearing a lab coat.

  “Who are you supposed to be, Doctor Who?”

  “Not quite; I’m Dr. Meyer. I run the Rockycreek Department of Clinical Laboratory Sciences, and I consult with the local police department. I could run a few tests, give you a receipt to keep the chain of evidence intact.”

  McGauren growled. “I’m going to get one of the locals, and he can deal with all of you.”

  Ryan smiled, only to have his shoulder tapped. He turned to face Inna.

  “You slapped Eielson?”

  His face fell behind the Spider-Man mask. “He was being rude.”

  “He’s always rude, doesn’t mean you have to hit him! I’m his agent. If he knew our relationship, you might cost me a client! Do you know how much the bastard is worth?”

  “Sexual harassment, I guess.” He sighed. “Well, I saved his life, so if he gets cranky, you can remind him.”

  “I’ll have to,” Inna said. “Repeatedly.”

  They shared a long look, and it would have led to kissing and other romantic activities. However, Kovach said, “Not in the Spider-Man outfit, for God’s sake—you'll scare the children.”

  On the other side of the room, the redhead merely smiled. She looked back at one of the bookstands, one of which was a dating manual recommending pickups at sci-fi Cons: “You'll find a slightly geeky crowd, but that's OK. Guys who weren't popular in high school make excellent boyfriends. After the braces come off and the acne clears, you’re left with a smart, nice-looking man who on some level will always feel extremely grateful to have a girlfriend. Plus, they're handy when your computer crashes. So, get a couple of good sci-fi books, rent The Lord of the Rings, and read your Philip K. Dick.”

  She sighed. “Thanks, already got mine.” She looked back at Kovach yelling at the head of convention security. “Assuming he doesn’t get his head blown off.”

  The redhead had often been compared to Marg Helgenberger; she had kind, gentle violet eyes that would occasionally turn green when she was excited in any manner; her Gaelic cheekbones sloped at a gentle angle, her rabbit-like nose poised just right in the overall scheme of her face. However, most people didn’t look much above her neck, no matter how hard she tried to conceal her figure with generally loose-fitting clothing.

  “Nice ass, lady, now get the fuck out of my way!”

  The redhead turned and looked down at the weasel-faced Corbin Eielson. “I’d be happy to,” she said in a soft, light voice. “Just be polite about it.”

  “Why the fuck should I be polite to a bimbette like you?”

  She knew of Eielson, and had always thought the rumors of his viciousness had been overblown by those envious of his talent. Or maybe it’s because he’s vicious.

  “Because you don’t want to be rude,” came a soft, deadly voice behind Eielson. “And writers shouldn’t be getting a bad name, now should we?”

  The short writer turned around and looked up at Matthew Kovach; his eyes had turned dark and cold, and his voice matched the artic feel.

  “Writer!” Eielson snapped. “You’re a second-rate sensationalist shit! Murder mysteries, my ass! They’re mere pot boilers ground out for the mindless masses, and—”

  The redhead stepped around Eielson and took Matthew's arm. There were few things in life that would set him off; harassing Moira was one of them. Anything after that, Eielson merely shortened his time in this life to quickly decreasing seconds.

  As the redhead walked him out, Eielson screamed, “Not so tough are you! Nazi!”

  McGauren slid next to Eielson. “You might want to keep your voice down, sir.”

  Eielson sneered at her. “Another fucking member of societal idiocy. Get the fuck away from me.” He pushed her away.

  Detective McGauren very calmly opened her badge case. “Please make me use handcuffs. You just assaulted a police officer.”

  Inna sighed as she saw the idiot her client had just made of himself. “Now I’ll have to spend the night getting him out of jail.”

  Sean coughed. “There’s no rush.”

  Sean kissed Inna on the cheek as she followed Eielson out of the room; they headed toward Kovach and his redheaded companion, and she guided him back inside. Sean intercepted them. “Nice work.”

  The ice had gone out of his eyes. “I wasn’t even trying…um, Sean Ryan, I’ve not introduced you to my keeper, have I?”

  Ryan slipped off his Spider-Man mask and smiled. “Not yet.”

  “Moira McShane,” she answered. “Are you going to threaten him again?”

  He laughed. “Not that I know of.”

  “Good, pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise, and you two are…?”

  Matthew smiled. “Very close.”

  Ryan grinned. “Right.” If I were him, I’d want to be as close as possible. “So, if you honestly weren’t trying, I’d like to see you actually get really pissed off.”

  He shook his head. “No, Mr. Ryan. Unlike the movie Hulk, where the best actor was CGI, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  Sean scanned the author and raised an eyebrow, wondering what planet he was from. Despite the height, the author had ten extra pounds hanging off his gut. “Why?”

  Matthew’s eyes turned as cold and as dark as the arctic skies, his voice matching them. “Because if I’m mad at you, it’s an Irish hatred, and we nurse grudges almost as long as Israelis. I’d come down on you with everything at my disposal, then destroy you.”

  Moira put a comforting hand on his shoulder, redirecting his testosterone level, and he smiled, warmth touching his features again. Kovach slid an arm around her waist and drew her close. “But it takes an awful lot to get me mad.”

  “Riiiight.” What the hell are you, pal?

  Matthew Kovach grinned, as though he had heard the protector’s thoughts. “So, anyway, where’re you off to now?”

  “I hope to a meeting with me.”’

  Ryan closed his eyes and muttered a curse in Arabic. Looking at Matthew, he said, “Do you see someone behind me?”

  The author smiled. “No, just Orlando Bloom.”

  Ryan groaned and turned. “Aren’t you satisfied yet? You shot her once today already, you want to do it again?”

  Galadren smiled. “I wish to serve Lady Nikolic.”

  Matthew Kovach looked at Mira. “I knew you were well-mannered, I didn’t know you were royalty.”

  Mira smiled at him, then looked to the elf. “I have not met you yet, but my… Ranger… has told me about you, Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin.”

  Moira McShane and Matthew shared a glance. What the…?

  Galadren dropped to one knee before Mira. “My Lady. Long have I observed you, and I longed to serve you, remind you of that which you were.”

  “An Elf, you mean?”

  Galadren stayed kneeling, head bowed. “Certainly.”

  Kovach almost laughed. Wow, this guy’s nuttier than an old Christmas fruitcake.

  Mira was about to say something else, sighed, grabbed him by the arms and roughly yanked him to his feet…nearly falling over backwards in the process. He caught her, and cocked his head.

  She righted herself and nodded firmly. “There, that is better. Now, I would like you to explain to me what you plan to do now that I acknowledge being… an elf?”

  “I intend to serve you, my Lady, the best way I know how, with bow and steel,” he said in a different language.

  She glanced at Sean and replied in the same language. “In which case, you can serve me best by assisting…” she smiled, “my Ranger.”

  McShane and Kovach nearly fell over laughing at the translation. “Well, Mr. Ryan, you’ve apparently adopted a trained killer.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “Lucky me.”

  Moira looked at Galadren. “What language were you sp
eaking?”

  “Elvish, of course.”

  One of the teeny-boppers in the room overheard and cried, “Elvis! Where?”

  ***

  An hour later, when Eielson was safely off campus, Dr. Meyer of the Rockycreek CLS department informed the local police to start working over the entire room. “The dart was laced with what Terry Goodkind once called a twelve-step poison.”

  “Oh, you mean it shuts down your bodily functions in a twelve-step sequence?” Sean Ryan suggested.

  Meyer shook his head. “No, I mean you’re lucky if you make it twelve steps.”

  After he had sent the “elven assassin” on a scouting mission—“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to keep your eyes and ears open in case I need you”—Sean brought Mira’s family to the hotel for dinner while he changed into a more lethal outfit. The Swiss-Army Borg costume was made of black rubber and light metal, with a probing red light over one eye that could turn into a laser with a switch. Over his left arm, Mitchell Scholl slipped a pinching attachment stronger than Sean was—all Ryan had to do was squeeze a lever inside the attachment, and the pincer-claw would close; if he hit a button, he could use it as a tazer.

  “This’ll protect you from anything except a knife at close range or a .32-caliber bullet or above. No little poisoned darts will nail you, stun guns won’t work because the suit is layered with rubber, and blunt objects’ll only dent the metal—and after the first swing, the claw will bend or break whatever hit you. Just don’t rely on it too much for personal protection, or you might get dead.”

  “When have I ever? Besides, I still have a Spider-Man outfit on under this, so if all else fails, I take the sleeves off this and shoot someone’s eyes out with ammonia.”

  “Fine, fine, whatever, just don’t come back dead,” Mitch instructed.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to. Any ideas on these pesky little annoyances?”

  A shrug. “Kill the Serbs, arrest all others.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Thanks…problem is there’s too much going on to be just the Serbs. I talked this out with someone, and we figured there’re at least three people after Mira: the Serbs, the people who shot at me last night, and the guys with the antabuse.” He sat back, trying to interlace his fingers like Sherlock Holmes, which was a problem with the claw. “If the Serbs tried last night’s stunt, they wouldn’t have waited since January, they would’ve simply shot her—so they’re not the shooters from last night. The antabuse and the poisoned dart are definitely not the shooters. Too subtle. The poison dart would also be a little premature for the Serbs—it wouldn’t have been on camera. Besides, if the Serbs really want to make an impact, they’re going to do this up close and personal. No, it’s Serbs, shooters, and someone else who wants clean hands.”

  “Then who does Zorro belong to?”

  Ryan sighed. “Great question, but I think I can guess. I think our friend from the bottle-throwing contest yesterday wasn’t some Trekker on meth—he was a Serb.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Zorro was my height, as was that guy.”

  “And the thing from last night? Not too subtle for Mr. Mystery Guest, who I’m guessing is after Mira too?”

  Ryan shrugged. “God only knows. Maybe the goal’s a little mayhem. The dart was coincidentally in front of the G5 booth. Even if it weren’t, there’s nothing to guarantee the demo guy would have pointed it at her—I mean, he thought it was empty, so there was every possibility he’d have pointed it at someone’s chest at point-blank range. It looks more like the work of someone with a grudge against C-Con than against any one person—the antabuse was general, the dart could have lodged into the chest of any random person. If I were properly paranoid, I might even be able to fit in the Muggle mugging the wizard to boot!” he joked.

  He rose and slowly strode to the door. “Wait until they get a load of me.”

  ***

  The Borg walked into the hotel restaurant, setting his laser sight on the table for eight. Marko Nikolic sat in his baby chair between Goran and Mira. On Mira’s right sat Caitlin Brown, and next to her was Andreas Sarantakos. There were three empty chairs, one for Inna, and the other one already piled with jackets and other items, leaving Sean Ryan a chair next to Goran.

  Mira looked up, unfazed by the site of the costume. “You’re late.”

  “Don’t worry about him being late,” Caitlin told her. “Worry about him needing to break up a gunfight.”

  He rolled his eyes as he slid off the right arm of the costume. “I only did that…two or three times.”

  Brown raised the wine bottle. “Drink?”

  Ryan smiled. “I do not drink…wine.”

  “You’re not going to set the place on fire, are you?” Sarantakos asked, amused.

  “I only did that once!” Ryan knew it was a joke, but it was a running gag that long ago became an amputee. “Besides, I haven’t destroyed a building in years.”

  Mira, still looking stunning in her red-and-blue alien robes, looked at Sean sideways. “I thought they had been making that up.”

  Ryan coughed lightly, remembering the initial warnings Inna had given him about his tactics getting back to Mira. “The incident involved some very bad men, all of whom were drug dealers. You have heard about Philippe Nero of Escobar?”

  “I have heard of him, but not much… I am not one for rumor and innuendo.”

  “And you live in Hollywood!” Sarantakos laughed.

  Ryan groaned. “Mr. Nero was a former drug Cartel member. Mysteriously enough, after he made it big, the Drug Enforcement Agency came to visit drug labs and individuals, several crops went ablaze, and there was a rather large drug war, with Cartels hacking away at each other. The survivors of this carnage were six high-ranking men who weren’t strong enough to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, but had enough weaponry to come after the man who pushed Mr. Dumpty off the wall.”

  “Mr. Nero?”

  “They thought so,” Ryan answered. “I doubt it. I figure he could have gone to the DEA to get protection; granted, I’m not the one who’d have to give up an acting career.”

  Brown laughed. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no way in hell he’d give up Escobar.”

  Mira ignored Caitlin and focused on Sean. “And the house?”

  He shrugged. “They barricaded him in his house and had plenty of cover fire outside in case we tried to escape. I had a very simple solution. First step, we called the cops, saying there were some suspicious men hanging around—and did I mention it’s the house of a celebrity? Thank you for coming around, officers.”

  “And you let the cops handle it?” Sarantakos asked.

  He shook his head. “No, the bad guys had way too much artillery, not to mention body armor. I didn’t want the LAPD to go toe-to-toe with them—there were six guys armed with God knows what—they at least had Uzis—and there were six who were already in place with a planned course of action; the cops wouldn’t stand a chance. After I called, I fired a few rounds, let the bad guys return fire, and I withdrew, letting them think they hit me. While they took their time getting in, around my fortifications, I was breaking Nero’s entire liquor cabinet over the floor. I opened the gas vent to his fireplace and—”

  Goran cut him off with a query of “A fireplace in Los Angeles?”

  Ryan smiled. “Goran, in LA they turn on their air conditioners so they can enjoy a roaring fire. Anyway, the bad guys came in firing; however, their sound suppressors muzzled the flare from their guns, and so I had to light the night on fire myself. The flames and the confusion allowed me to escape with Nero. With the cops on approach, they all came inside—and the house collapsed on them. LAPD is still trying to dig those guys out.”

  “It sounds most frightening,” Mira responded. She leaned back in the chair to study her protector, dressed in a ridiculous cyborg suit.

  “I’ve faced worst,” he answered without thinking. The only reason anyone knew the fire was anything other than
an accident had been his call to the police, which is why it was the anecdote that had gotten the most publicity. Had he settled it his way, there could have been at least two more men after Nero, and he might still be protecting him. “So, Ms. Brown, I know you represent Mr. Sarantakos. How many other former co-stars are you representing?”

  Brown smiled. “Quite a few. I’m representing Susan Christiani with her movie career, as well as David Jurasik.” She glanced at her watch and laughed. “Well, it’s time to get ready, the Actor’s Studio starts in a few minutes.”

  Ryan sighed and moved to rearm his suit when he caught Mira glancing at him. He stepped away from the arm, giving everyone enough room to collect their things. “Something wrong?” he asked her.

  “How dangerous are you?”

  “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

  ***

  Sean Ryan stood, statuesque, on the left wing of the stage in the main lecture hall of the Javits Center. He slid the red, constantly-moving light over his eye and tapped a button Mitchell had told him about; the darkness that had been over his right eye flickered into a digital screen, relaying information that the fiber-optic camera stored in the light relaying to him. As the light moved, the camera moved as well, allowing him to keep one eye on each end of the room without having to be cross-eyed.

  For the first fifteen minutes, Sean was ready to draw his stun gun on the audience and lead Mira outside—even though the presentation was to be televised on Long Island TV, Mira and Andreas Sarantakos were both alone on the stage, seated at the long table meant to hold the panel. Sarantakos gleefully took questions from the audience, a true New Yorker.

  All but two of the panel arrived twenty minutes late. Apparently, Eielson had been scheduled to speak there beforehand and few had been notified about his arrest, so the guests arrived at the time they believed he might finish. When two members of the panel had yet to arrive, both from G5, Andreas said, “Let’s boo them when they arrive.”

  Lee Kristoff strode in, unusually elegant for a man of his build. He had stories to tell from the set of his trilogies: about how one actor tended to fight as though he were a berserker; the time when another tried to sheathe his sword, only to miss and run a halfling through the foot; and, of course, every single moment of the director’s time was spent either behind the camera or on a cell phone. There were the two Hobbits stuck up in the mechanical talking tree while everyone else was on coffee break, after the actors decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to get off and come back later.