by Declan Finn
“Exactly.”
Sean nodded slowly. “And the Hubbles are this great big Sci-Fi award? At WyvernCon? Where are the awards given out?”
“Not with us. They go through UniversalCon. But they wouldn't allow any Puppies at that Con, so they all thought this would be neutral ground.”
Sean looked around the hotel as though he had been teleported to a different dimension. “They do realize we're in the South, right? They have guns here, don't they? And the—whadid'ya call them? The smurfs?—thought that this would be neutral ground? Are they smoking many drugs, or only great quantities of one in particular? Because if it's the latter, I need to be on the lookout for if it hits LA anytime soon.”
Sean sat back and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought over everything she said. Including the things she didn't say, and really didn't have to say.
This is going to be such a Charlie Foxtrot. “Madam Wicklund, do you know why I don't like working Cons?”
Yvonne blinked, surprised to be asked a question. “Hmm? Why?”
His eyes opened, their startling blue flashing like twin LED lights. “Because the one Con I worked? C-Con? It was one of the stranger experiences in my entire career. And that's saying something, especially considering the last job I was on. This sounds almost worse than C-Con.”
Yvonne Wicklund's eyebrows shot straight up at that. “How the heck is that possible? From what I recall, your last Con experience involved…” She looked at the sheet of paper. “Al-Qaeda, Serbian SpecOps, Mexican drug cartels, the IRA, and at least one psycho with an Uzi. How can a scrap amongst a bunch of my fellow nerds be worse than all of that?”
He leaned forward. “Well, follow my reasoning. I haven't heard about the Hubbles, right? So it's not like this is a mainstream award, even though comic book films, Doctor Who, Star Wars, and Star Trek are almost mainstream themselves. Everyone has at least heard about the Avengers, Captain Kirk, and lightsabers, right?”
Wicklund nodded. “That you don't know about the Hubbles? That's not entirely unexpected. There are authors and readers who haven't even heard of the Hubbles. You're not really in fandom, from what I can tell, so I'm not shocked.”
Sean facepalmed, and felt a headache coming on. “Yeah. That's the point. You said that the Depressed Puppies—”
“Tearful,” she casually corrected, already getting used to him.
“The Tearful Puppies are trying to save the awards from themselves, right? And if even people who live the life have barely heard of this award? That means that this is the very definition of an academic standoff: the fights are so vicious because the stakes are so damn small. When all that's available are crumbs, the more people will scrape and claw to keep what they have. You tell me that both sets of Puppies are trying to take it away from the SMAWs and the CHUDs and whatever else they are, you think that they're going to go away easy? No flipping way.”
Yvonne winced at his screwing up SMURFs. She sighed and said, “Okay. And?”
“How long has this been going on? The Puppies?”
“We're in year four.”
“And the SMUTs—”
She held up a hand. “Can we just call them leftists? Your butchering of the acronyms is giving me a headache.”
“My point is that they're still fighting to keep the Hubble Awards,” he concluded. “They haven't moved on to something else. Thus, this is seriously important to them, and they can't go anywhere else. They are backed into a corner. Which means they're going to do anything in their power to keep what power they have.”
Sean leaned forward and smiled an easy, feline smile. “And I'm here. I can't imagine that you'd pay my fees if it was only a few pricks here and there who were soiling their red diapers. You know what I did in Rome. You can probably do the math on how much that cost.”
“Didn't need to,” Yvonne Wicklund answered. “I've got at least a few dozen guests at this convention who can do the breakdown on what you bought. Down to the price of the bullets.”
“So, you kinda know I'm broke. I think there are federal regulations against even giving me a bank loan, and my wife shouldn't be buying all of my bullets. So you can imagine what my fee would be. And yet? You still want to hire me. It makes me think that something's up. Are you worried that the SWATting was just the start?”
Yvonne grimaced even more. Sean could see that she really didn't want to have this discussion. “Pretty much. You know what a BNF is?”
Sean nodded. This was something he remembered from his last round of convention work. “Sure. Big Name Fan. Kind of like a D-list celebrity. Maybe C-list. Especially if they're internet famous. Why?”
“Well, we've got an anime artist out of Australia. She goes by Cryomancer online. A Chinese national by birth and ancestry. She comes with her own stalker.”
Sean closed his eyes, took a deep, slow breath, and let it out, counting to ten as he did. “Of course she does. What's the downlow on the psycho?”
Yvonne smiled at him like a clueless child. “I thought it was download?”
“The psycho?” he prompted.
Yvonne took her iPad back. “Yama Marshman, out of the back end of Massachusetts. From what we can tell, he hasn't done anything that anyone can really get him on—not lately. Agnes O'Day sicced a horde of PIs on Marshman, and got him banned from the Internet. Since then, Marshman has rotated targets, and he feels brave enough to cyber-stalk Cryomancer via rotating IP-anonymizers, but everyone knows it's him under a half-dozen different Internet aliases. He has a distinctive style of crazy.”
Sean frowned thoughtfully. “And he's gonna be here? In Atlanta?”
“Not that we know for certain,” Yvonne told him, “but Cryomancer will be here. It'll be the first time they're on the same continent.”
“And who wants to take chances?” he concluded.
“You're catching on.”
“I'm slow, but I get there.” Sean thought for a second, thinking over yet another problem, one that Yvonne hadn't brought up yet, and it was almost suspicious that she hadn't. “Any contact between the two groups of Puppies?”
“It depends, really. Some of the Hydrophobic Puppies are more antagonistic to the Hubbles than others. Though the SMURFs don't particularly care—are far as they're concerned, the only good Puppy—”
“Is a neutered Puppy?” Sean filled in.
“More or less,” Yvonne Wicklund said with a laugh. “You should see what some of them say about the Puppies—mostly that the entire thing is orchestrated by O'Day, and that they're all out to get them. It's a bit of a Charlie Foxtrot.”
“No kidding,” Sean scoffed. “So it's pretty much everybody versus everybody else, to one degree or another.”
“It's not that bad between the two groups of Puppies, but there are various and sundry personality conflicts all over the place.”
“Gotcha. So that might be a non-issue. And how dangerous is this stalker? In your estimation?”
At that, Wicklund's face went neutral. “For example? Marshman approached one of her children online and exposed him to porn—a six-year-old. When one of her children died from SIDS, he claimed credit for it, and then publicly wished for her to be barren using King Lear quotes.”
Sean's eyes narrowed, and his gaze intensified so much, Wicklund thought that his eyes were going to start shooting laser beams. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced, and tightened into a fist. “Oh, really? Well, then, I can only hope that Mister Marshman shows up. I would love to make his acquaintance. With a golf club.”
Wicklund laughed at that. “Take a number and get in line.”
Sean raised an eyebrow at that. “Well, she's a BNF, so she should have fans of her own, that's the point, right? How many of them are we guessing at?”
She pulled out her phone and opened an app. “About four hundred.”
He gave a low whistle. “How'd you get that number?”
“Cryomancer's followers on Twitter. She's made a record of Marshma
n's stalking, complete with links and screen captures, and she's shared it with anyone who asks. It's all a public record.”
Sean chuckled. “Maybe we won't need to protect her. Sounds like her fans will get to him before I will.”
She smiled. “Point taken.”
He shrugged, and visibly relaxed. “Unless of course, the bastard's in costume the whole time and no one spots him. So, we'll see.”
Yvonne's eyes twinkled. “Does that mean you want the job?”
“Want? No. Need? Yes. Somebody else might get it wrong.”
“Ah, Mordin, Mass Effect.”
“Who?”
Chapter 3: Here we go again
Sean A.P. Ryan stepped out into the fresh air of Atlanta, and immediately felt like he was going to have to swim along the sidewalk. Being a native of California, he was used to that.
At least there's no smog. And I can carry my guns without people giving me a hard time about it.
Sean looked around for a moment. The front of the Hilton was, of course, a curved driveway, with either end meeting the street, the door in the middle, covered from above by a concrete awning that could blot out the sun. It was similar to the door across the street, leading to the back door of the Marriott—though that was more of a dock than a primary entrance.
Sean stepped out onto the sidewalk, still in the shade. Above him was a skywalk leading from the second floor of the Hilton to another level of the Marriott.
Nice arrangement for a convention, they never have to leave the air conditioning. He studied the underside of the skywalk, cocking his head to one side, and it was littered with weldings and reinforcements. Well, someone screwed that up the first time, if they need that much backup.
Sean pulled out his Bluetooth, then dialed his office.
“Sean A.P. Ryan and Associates, Athena Marcowitz speaking,” came the answer.
“Hey, 'Thena. How's life?”
“Well, it was quiet for a change,” she said, a smile in her voice. The former Secret Service agent said, “So, what's up with the Atlanta gig? Are we taking it or not?”
“We need the money,” Sean answered as he studied the street. “And the price is right.”
“Really?” she asked, with enough shock that one would think that Sean had confessed to skinning a kitten. “I always wondered what it would take for you to do another convention. Didn't know it would involve a price tag.”
“A million is a good start.” Sean waited for a lull in traffic, then sprinted across the street, at a right angle to the Hilton and the Marriott, heading for another hotel of WyvernCon, a Sheraton.
The entire convention was a giant C … maybe a giant O if you wanted to ignore that there wasn't a connecting point between the two ends. On the top of the hill was the Westin, and to the far right of it was the Hyatt. Going down the hill was the Marriott and the Hilton in quick succession, one block after the other. Then, going all the way back, on the same level of the hill as the Hilton, was the Sheraton. It was a little insane.
“I could use the money,” Sean added.
Athena said nothing for a moment, but that was all right as far as he was concerned, there was nothing to say. Sean A.P. Ryan and Associates was solvent; Sean hadn't touched a penny of his company's assets for his little war in Rome. The company, and his employees, had been completely safe, and untouchable by the government. Okay, they had been briefly harassed by the IRS, and a lot of inspectors came by for a while, but some well-placed threats and some friends in low places settled that issue.
“Can't we all?” Athena answered.
“Amen to that.” He jogged a little down the sidewalk. The Hilton and the Sheraton hotels were separated by a really long city block. “They have a hundred thousand guests, at $100 a pop, so I'm not exactly eating up their budget.” He stopped at the corner, looking out at the Sheraton, a simple white stone building, maybe four stories tall—and that included the two floors that were lower than the sidewalk, going down the hill. “I'm just looking over the layout now. It's spread out over six buildings, five hotels, and one just for the vendor's area.”
Sean crossed the street, and went down the hill to the lower level. He checked for cars before crossing the driveway and walking into the “basement,” which looked more like a ballroom level—well carpeted, well gilded, with wood paneling, and enough water coolers to hydrate a regiment, maybe a division.
Athena gave a low whistle. “Well, a hundred thousand people needs that much space.”
“Yeah. Get ready to share a room with … everybody.” Sean chuckled. “But there's a premium on room. I asked for a suite. I may get a broom closet. I think everything is sold out in downtown Atlanta for that weekend.”
“When is it again?”
“Labor Day weekend,” he said. “Four, maybe five days. At worst, it's Thursday night into late Monday afternoon.”
Athena paused for a long moment. “Oh crap.”
“Welcome back to the wonderful world of science fiction and fantasy conventions.”
“Ugh.” Athena paused for a moment. “Sean, being realistic here, how are we going to manage all of that?” she asked. “There are only so many of us kicking around. You, me, Boyle, Ed—I mean Brian—the Elf. We're not even going to have one per hotel. We only managed to do the job in the last convention because we were protecting one person, and hardened security around us as much as possible to prevent collateral damage.”
“We're going to have backup on this one,” Sean explained as he looked into the last hall. That was number six of six. He had no idea how the layout usually went, but if he had his druthers, he's stick the registration lines in there—the walls would absorb more of the impact if someone set off explosions. “Let's just say that we have an army.”
“As long as they don't have a Hulk …”
Sean stopped dead in the hallway. “Really, Athena? You too?”
“What? Didn't you see that movie?”
Sean sighed. “Whatever.”
Sean walked outside, circled around the building—to get to the front, he had to walk back up the hill, circling around some greenery on the corner of the property just to get into the main driveway and then front door. He moved into Sheraton's lobby, and gave it a quick look. They were trying for a more fancy appearance, from the white marble tiles to the crystal chandeliers. It wasn't that big, and only half a dozen chairs, and four tables. Though it was at least brighter than the lobby of the Hilton and only as big as a well-spaced living room. He found it hard to imagine a lot of people moving through there at any one time.
“Hmm, shiny,” he muttered. “Anyway, the short version is that we're going to want the layouts of the local hotels—the Hilton, the Marriott, the Sheraton, the Hyatt, and the Westin, all around Peachtree in Downtown. I have the feeling this might be a little complicated.”
“Complicated? Given our layout … well, we're already short on personnel, even assuming you trust two of us to be on our own at all.”
Sean laughed as he pushed through the doors, heading back out. The closest hotel was going to be the Hilton, but going up the … fairly steep … hill in front of him would eventually lead to the Westin. “Come now, what's not to trust?”
Athena muttered some expletives under her breath. “One's a terrorist, and the other one thinks he's an Elf!”
“Boyle was never that bad,” Sean insisted as he started pushing up the hill. The first thing on his left was a little Greek place the size of a postage stamp, and their outdoor dining. Right next to it was the giant parking garage. “And Galadren … okay, he's crazy, but here, no one will notice, trust me. We're going to need the people. We have an army, but I want people I know on the ground.”
“What's the matter? More hit men out to get an actress?” she asked, referencing the previous convention he worked.
“There's no specific threat out there, but it's bad enough. Look up something about Puppies with mood disorders, and an award called the Hubbles.”
“Oh yea
h, the People's Choice awards of science fiction,” Athena told him. “It's an award voted on by the fans. All you really need is to pay membership in some sort of convention, and presto, you can vote. Why? What's up?”
Sean stopped halfway up the hill, just past the parking garage and paused. “Wait, you know about these things?”
“You should too,” she insisted. “Remember Mira Gaijic's first show in America? Galileo 5?”
He frowned, vaguely recalling some of the media from that case. “Something about a tin can in space, right?”
“Well, that show won two Hubbles, a Nebula, and a few others in the mix.”
Sean blinked, and thought back to the conversation he just had with Yvonne Wicklund. “I thought this was a literary award?”
“Nope. Sci-fi in general. It includes books, movies, TV shows, blogs, you name it, they have it. There's even 'related work' as a catchall to jam in anything else. I'm not an expert though, that's as much as I know. You'd have to get an expert in fandom in general.”
Sean said nothing for a long moment, then chuckled. “We know one of those.”
Athena groaned. “You're not thinking of talking to Goldberg, are you?”
“Well, it would be one way to add members to the team, wouldn't it?”
“Ville doesn't even like you, does she?”
“Most people don't like me, they hire me anyway.” He slowed down, finally catching sight of the Westin. It was a black building that looked more like a shiny office building than a hotel. “By the way,” he said, now serious, “we've got a problem.”
“Uh huh. Want to be specific?”
Sean pulled out the telephone he lifted from one of the gunmen in his hotel room that morning, then started tapping away at the site logged into the phone. He made sure to text it to his compatriot—there was a reason he made certain to retain all of his people's phone numbers. “I'm sending you a URL, it looks Dark Net related.”
