AbductiCon

by Alma Alexander

  Ξ

  The Steel Magnolia, which was what Andie Mae was known as behind her back half in affection and half in abject terror, was chewing on her perfect lower lip while cradling her cellphone between her shoulder and her ear in a quiet spot she had found just inside a newly–cleared hotel bedroom due to be used as a programming room the next day. But Al Coe’s phone kept on going to voicemail, and she had left three messages already – she had started out by being snarky, but by the third message she had graduated to Please call me, where ARE you, I am getting worried. This fourth call was not giving her any more joy, and she finally thumbed off the phone with a frustrated grimace and without leaving another message. A passing thought about starting to call the local hospitals meandered across the surface of her mind, but then she mentally shook herself and firmly admonished her more paranoid self to stop being ridiculous – and to possibly start thinking of something adequate to say when Al did turn up with those posters, which were turning into quite the production.

  Turning sharp right as she exited the sanctuary of the not–yet–panel–room, she nearly collided with a figure standing close to the wall, very still, his skin a silvery–white, with two pale eyes set dully into an almost expressionless face.

  “Sorry,” she said automatically, ducking around the guy.

  He did not respond, by word or gesture, and Andie Mae briefly felt as though she should be offended and flounce off in a huff – but she had other things on her mind, and she methodically subtracted the silver man from her thoughts as she hurried forward and plunged into the busier corridors where the con was beginning to swing into a higher gear.

  She failed to notice a pair of con–goers who had paused as she flung herself unseeingly past them, but the older of the two, a middle–aged man with a receding hairline of salt–and–pepper hair that swept around the back of his head like a half–tonsure and a lush gray beard, halted as he turned to follow Andie Mae’s progress with glittering gray–blue eyes.

  “Thar she blows,” he muttered.

  His companion, a lanky youngster in perhaps his late teens, turned his head marginally.

  “She didn’t even look,” the young man said, in a voice dithering between obligatorily aggrieved (on his mentor’s behalf) and vaguely puzzled.

  “Oh, she wouldn’t pay attention to the likes of me, Marius, not in public,” Sam Dutton, Andie Mae’s predecessor as the con Chair, said. “I only owned this con for the last three decades, that’s all. But it’s her baby now and she doesn’t want to be reminded of history, not today. And I’m history. I’m not surprised that she wouldn’t stop and chat. But still – she looks rather more singularly focused than one should be at this stage of the game. I wonder if everything is okay.”

  “Do you miss it?” Marius Tarkovski asked, turning back to Sam with a small smile.

  Sam waved his hands in a gesture that implied a complete inability to answer the question. “Some part of me does,” he admitted. “I just know I should be in the thick of things, and it feels odd – like a mental itch – being here and not being on the inside. But on the other hand… anything that does go wrong won’t be my fault this time, dammit. Her show. Her game. Her responsibility. It’s what she wanted, and I hope that she gets exactly what she wanted.” He stopped, and looked almost astonished. “That came out rather more claws–out than I intended,” he said. “Who knew. Maybe it does rankle just a bit more than I thought it would.”

  “You sure it was a good idea coming this year?” Marius asked.

  “Well, your Mom is happier knowing that you’ve got me on standby – your first solo con and all that,” Sam said, grinning. “So there’s the babysitting aspect of it…”

  Marius aimed a polite but still affronted fist bump at the older man’s shoulder. “I’m seventeen,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Sam agreed laconically, and followed the passage of a trio of scantily–clad female fairies wearing the barest minimum of chiffon and oversize pink wings. One of them became aware of the scrutiny and half–turned, offering a flirtatious glance from underneath drooping eyelids that looked too weak to support the weight of glitter piled upon them. Marius flushed a bright scarlet, right to the tips of his ears, a reaction to both Sam’s implications and that particular response, and looked down to the toes of his sneakers.

  Sam laughed, but not unkindly; he gave Marius’s shoulder an understanding squeeze and at the same time used the gesture to propel him forward once again in their original direction.

  “Come on, kid,” he said. “We’ll mingle a bit more – I’m sure there are friends out here somewhere – and then we can turn in. Tomorrow the fun begins. AndieCon starts in earnest…”

  “Sam…?”

  Sam’s head turned very slowly at the sound of his name, to face a young man a good thirty years his junior but with signs of exactly the same receding hairline beginning to make an appearance. They looked remarkably similar, in fact – that hair, and eyes of almost exactly the same color, of almost identical height and build allowing for some middle–aged spread on Sam. Marius, who immediately recognized the new arrival as Andie Mae’s ex–liutenant Liam Connors, wondered not for the first time if there was actual truth in tales of time travel and whether it was possible that somehow, without even knowing it, Liam was a young Sam and there was a dangerous time–line crossing occurring here which meant that the entire con would implode into a temporal black hole any minute.

  But nothing of the sort happened, and Sam smiled a tight little smile as he acknowledged Liam with a small nod.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey yourself,” Liam said, awkward, not knowing whether to smile or how broadly to smile or whether he really should have said anything at all. He was, after all, at Andie Mae’s side when the two Young Turks had orchestrated the coup that had removed Sam from the con Chair – but then Andie Mae had ditched Liam, also, to go solo. And now he was stuck in limbo, in no–man’s land, betrayer of the old guard and betrayed by the new. “I, uh, didn’t think you’d come.”

  “This? I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And there’s also the fact that I haven’t actually missed one of these for three decades and I wasn’t about to start now. Habit, you know. How about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Well,” Sam said, one eyebrow rising Spock–like into the middle of his forehead, “you are kind of compromised with the leadership, aren’t you?”

  Liam flushed. “I don’t think – ” he began, but Sam waved him into silence.

  “Son,” he said, “ I rather knew that. You don’t think. That was the problem last year. You might have known she wouldn’t share, but eh, she is Andie Mae and we all know how persuasive she is. I just want to know if it was you behind the Big Name Writer GoH no–show – did you sabotage that? To get back at Andie Mae for ditching you? I figured it might be.”

  “Why?” Liam asked defensively.

  “Because he was my original contact, and I passed his contact details to you, and you were the one dealing with him for this gig… until it all went pear–shaped for Andie Mae after she ditched you. Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying to draw the lines if all the dots are lined up.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to her,” Liam said, stuffing both hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “No, of course not,” Sam agreed without rancor. “And Vince Silverman is a pleasant enough replacement. I am quite looking forward to cornering him for a chat, actually. There are things I’ve wanted to ask him about his books, so it works out nicely.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t come,” Liam said. “After… after…”

  “I accept your apology,” Sam said regally, all but offering up his royal hand to be kissed. Whether or not an apology was actually what Liam had had in mind, he didn’t say anything more – and after another short and awkward silence, during which Liam could not or would not lift his eyes to meet Sam’s steady gaze, Marius took it upon himself to try and defuse the situation, latching onto the very
person they had just named, who had turned into their corridor as though summoned by a spell cast by those syllables.

  “Isn’t that him?” Marius said, nudging Sam with an elbow. “Vince Silverman?”

  “I believe so,” Sam said. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Liam… Hey, Mr Silverman! Vince!”

  They sidestepped an immobile Liam and made their way to where Vince Silverman had halted at the sound of his name and turned to see who had hailed him.

  “We met a number of times at this con or that,” Sam said. “Of course you probably don’t remember me at all, but there was that dinner that we had, you and me and Larry Niven and Greg Bear at the Natcon in Seattle a bunch of years back… black hole pudding, if you recall…”

  Vince Silverman did, vaguely, but he was damned if he could call up a name. He stuck out a hand anyway with a smile that came out commendably sincere given that it was so completely staged. “Yes, of course,” he said. “The name escapes me, I’m afraid, but I do remember that conversation…”

  “Dutton. Sam Dutton. We actually emailed some, over the years – I used to be con Chair of this very con right here until a year ago, but now it is under completely new management and I am just a humble fan again. But I’m very glad to see you again. As the Guest of Honor, they must have you scheduled down to the minute but – well – how long are you staying? If you find yourself in the market for dinner company, perhaps on Sunday night after most of the real festivities are over, perhaps we might connect.”

  “That sounds good,” Vince said, and actually meant it. Truth was, he did recall a raucous dinner at a con long past, at which he had had an uncommonly good time, and this man had definitely been there for that. By Sunday it was entirely possible that he would be happy to have this dinner companion.

  “About half past sixish? Outside the restaurant?” Sam said. “That should be okay as far as any programming is concerned…And I’ll probably have this young’un in tow – may I introduce Marius Tarkovski, winner of his high school writing competition for three years running and very much wanting to walk in your shoes some day.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Vince said. “I look forward to it. And nice to meet you, Marius. We’ll talk.”

  “Enjoy the con,” Sam said

  Marius, who had been rendered quite speechless by the entire encounter, finally found his voice as he watched Vince Silverman’s back vanish into the throng in the corridor.

  “Do you actually know everyone?” he demanded of Sam as they stood there and allowed the crowds to flow around them like water around an obstacle in its path.

  “Oh, it’s quite the little club,” Sam said. “Put in enough years and enough cons and sooner or later you at least recognize most people. I remember one time I was at a smaller regional con and then I more or less went straight from that to that year’s Worldcon, in LA that year, and the first person I saw in the football–field–sized lobby of that enormous hotel was a person to whom I had said goodbye less than a week ago at another hotel halfway across the country. Sometimes cons feel like they warp the space–time continuum…”

  “A space–time anomaly.”

  “Don’t say that, you know what always happens to the Enterprise after they go poking too closely at one,” Sam said. “But that’s a bar conversation. We should go and hang out there – sooner or later the whole convention comes drifting by and finds you.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Marius said dryly. “You’ve said it many times, and yet may I remind you again that technically I would probably be arrested…”

  Sam grimaced. “It’s your own fault, boy, you talk and act like you aren’t a juvenile,” he said. “In theory the next best thing would be the Green Room because everyone filters through there sooner or later and there are no issues with you being underage – but there the problem might be me. Andie Mae might well have posted ‘thou shalt not pass’ spells on the door, and fire–breathing dragons would be released in defense of the realm if I came within a hundred feet of the sacred door. But there’s bound to be an early party or two going on. Maybe some of them won’t even think it’s necessary to card you, young’un, and we can pick up all sorts of loose talk if we keep our ears open.”

  “Sam, what are you doing here?” Marius asked, giving his friend and mentor a long, measured gaze. “One of the other guys in the teen writer’s competition, he’s been volunteering this year, he’s pretty tight with the new bunch. He says that Andie Mae said that you were going to try and throw a monkey wrench into…”

  “Ah, no, son,” Sam said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “I’m interested in how this whole thing plays out this year, with a new management crew calling the shots – and I’ve heard that it’s pretty much a given that if I did something one way, Andie Mae has done her utmost to do it as differently as she can. I would not shoot this con of all cons in the foot. I spent too much time and energy and blood and sweat and tears building up the equity here to tear it down out of some petty spite. No, I’m not out to pull the rug out from under her. But I do want to know just exactly what kind of rug it is that we are standing on. Come on. Keep your ears open. This will give you six good novels’ worth of material, if you take copious notes.”

  Ξ

  After that last abortive attempt at connecting with Al on the phone, Andie Mae had gone so far as to complain about his continued absence to several of her ConCom members, and had even indicated that she was thinking of sending out the cavalry to look for him – or at least phoning the local lock–ups and hospitals to find out if he had done something that had landed him in either. She had been dissuaded, for the moment, and then something else claimed her immediate attention and erased the mystery from the top of her to–do list, with just a mental footnote to take her time and an exquisite pleasure in a properly crafted and blistering take–down of a welcome when Al did turn up – but if she had, in fact, phoned the local ER she might have found out more than she realized.

  It was there that a dazed Al Coe began to realize just how much time had passed, that he had not called in to provide a reason for his non–arrival at the hotel with the posters everyone was waiting for, that he could not do so anyway since his phone seemed to be missing (and, upon further reflection, he could not remember what had happened to said posters, either), and that he actually had an arm in a sling which indicated that Something Bad Had Happened of which he didn’t quite have a full and complete recollection.

  “I need to…” he began urgently, when a young nurse wearing scrubs with a teddy bear pattern on them walked into the room where he sat on a gurney, but she waved him back down when he tried to get to his feet. Those feet were bare, he noticed, with a disconnected idea that his shoes (as well as his phone and the posters) were also missing from the scene. The nurse pushed him back down on the gurney, gently but firmly.

  “The doctor will be in to see you,” she said. “You should be all right to go home, with a few pain killers – do you have anyone we can call?”

  “No,” Al said stupidly, his mind curiously blank – and that was true enough, his home was currently quite empty of anyone to whom his condition and whereabouts might be of interest. The reason, of course, was that his flatmate was already at the con. So was Andie Mae. So was pretty much everybody he knew. It only occurred to him belatedly, after the nurse had left, that he could have called them at the con. That he should have called them at the con.

  His head ached.

  When the doctor did turn up, some thirty or so minutes later, Al told him as much; the doctor pulled back his lower eyelids and peered into his eyes with a small flashlight.

  “You don’t have concussion,” he said, “but you’re pretty out of it, anyway…”

  “I should go home,” Al said. “Where’s my clothes? Where’s my car keys?”

  The doctor looked him oddly. “Your car’s pretty smashed,” he said, “they towed that. Besides, I wouldn’t be happy with you driving anywhere right now. I’d actually prefer it i
f you stayed…”

  “I have to get home,” Al said. And then blinked. “Towed?”

  “Yes. The other guy was pretty totaled too. You smashed together pretty good. You’re both lucky it all ended up with just a few non–life–threatening broken bones.”

  “Wait – towed? Towed where? Were the posters still in there?”

  “The posters?” the doctor said, looking at Al strangely, obviously reconsidering his options with this patient.

  “I was on my way to… which company? How do I get hold of…?”

  The doctor consulted a chart, and then looked up again. “Mr Coe,” he said, “wherever it was that you were going, you aren’t exactly in any shape to go there right now. I am quite serious about – ”

  But Al was seeing Andie Mae’s furious face, burning blue eyes. “But I promised I would get the posters there tonight,” he murmured.

  “Well,” the doctor said, “you won’t. The number of the towing company’s probably on the card you had in your wallet. You can deal with them in good time. Right now, it’s my job to make sure you’re comfortable and you won’t come to any additional harm. Now. Is there anyone we can call to pick you up and keep an eye on you?”

  “The California Resort,” Al said.

  “What?”

  “The California Resort. That’s where I need to go.”

  “Are you staying there? You aren’t local?” The doctor consulted his chart again. “I thought I saw an address…”

  “Everybody is over there. Nobody home right now.”

  “Oh,” the doctor said, uncomprehendingly, staring at Al with a slight frown.