AbductiCon

by Alma Alexander

  “If it quacks like an aspirin,” Xander said, sounding just a touch exasperated with a mundane’s unwillingness to accept the science fiction miracles which he, the aficionado, was perfectly happy to take for granted. He thrust out his tea. “Here, taste this, and tell me if you think it fails the taste test for Earl Gray.”

  Dave mechanically accepted the cup.

  “The pills will function according to specifications,” Boss said. “The replicators have been programmed with the parameters and the context of your culture’s needs and desires. It knows how to provide that which is required of it.”

  “Wait, replicators?” Dave said. “How many of these are there? Where are they?”

  “At present only this one is operational,” Boss said. “But we can activate as many as necessary, in whatever location is required.”

  Andie Mae and Dave had the same thought at the same instant, and caught one another’s eye in instant consternation.

  “And it can provide anything that is required?”

  “Anything,” Boss said.

  “I, uh, no, just… no,” Andie Mae said. “They are wonderful – I might even go so far to say that under the circumstances they may be essential – but we can’t have a free for all. If anyone could walk up to one of these and ask for anything we’d have a bunch of people getting vast quantities of… inappropriate… things… and then things would go really kablooey.”

  “I suggest one, maybe two, in the kitchens,” Dave said firmly, “with access keyed to kitchen staff – is that possible?” Boss inclined his head in what might have been agreement and Dave continued, “Those could simply be used to provide for whatever people who sat down in the restaurant ordered off the menu – just like a real kitchen. Maybe one on the Asylum Floor run by the good doctor here, but again – perhaps in the privacy of a room that can be locked away from general traffic, and with limited access only.”

  “And one in the Green Room,” Xander said obstinately. He wasn’t going to get cheated out of this experience just because nobody else could be trusted with it.

  “And in the bars?” Luke said with a hopeful smile. “That thing provides booze, too?”

  “It can probably be non–intoxicating synthahol, too, if you specify that,” Xander said, baring his own teeth in a positively gleeful grin.

  “Er, thanks, no, if I go into the bar I’ll want the real damn thing, thank you,” Dave muttered. “But the bars aren’t likely to be a problem, really – and if necessary whoever is in charge can come down and get a bottle of whatever they need from ours. What about this particular one? Can you… relocate it? Or disconnect it? It’s too easily accessible here.”

  “Er, hey, guys,” said a new voice.

  They turned around and saw one of the gamers, a boy in his late teens, strings of lanky hair falling about his shoulders. He had just emerged from the gamers’ ballroom, clutching a cell phone and looking confused, his eyes wide and apparently finding it a little difficult to focus on the real world.

  “Can we help you?” Dave said.

  The boy peered at the ribbons decorating Dave’s badge. “You’re ConCom? Great. Look, a bunch of us in there missed lunch…”

  “It’s morning,” Dr Cohen said, frowning. “Lunch isn’t even – ”

  Xander elbowed him surreptitiously and shook his head when the doctor turned in response. Don’t even try. He has no idea what time it is.

  “Whatever,” the gamer said, after a short hesitation that appeared to take in the doctor’s objection and then dismiss it as being of no relevance or importance at all. “We wanted to get in some pizza, but none of us can get a signal for some reason. Can we get a pizza delivered?”

  “We don’t…” Luke began, but Xander stepped forward, still grinning.

  “Sure,” he said. “What would you like?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Doesn’t really matter. As long as it has pepperoni on it, I guess.”

  “I’ll deal with it,” Xander said brightly. “What’s your name?”

  “Uh, Eddie,” said the gamer. “Uh, thanks. I’d better get back now.”

  “Sure. It’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  The gamer retreated, and Dave rounded on Xander. “What are you playing at?”

  Xander gestured at the replicator. “Pizza delivery portal,” he said. “Right here. What better way to test it?”

  “They’re hardly a representative test taste sample,” Dave grumbled.

  But Xander had already turned back to the replicator.

  “One pizza, large, pepperoni,” he said. “Lots of pepperoni.”

  He was rewarded by the appearance of a hot, steaming pizza piled with so much pepperoni that it was practically impossible to see the crust.

  “Now I am hungry,” Xander said, staring at the pizza. “That actually… looks really good. And smells even better.”

  “And what are you going to do,” Dave said sarcastically, “pick it up with your own two fair hands and take it in there for them?”

  “What was that?”

  “Takeaway pizza usually comes in a box,” Dr. Cohen said helpfully, if a little faintly. He was still clutching his tube of aspirin but all this was rapidly overloading his circuits, and he wasn’t quite sure what the game was any more only that he knew absolutely none of the rules.

  “You have a point,” Xander said. “Anyone have a pen? A piece of paper?”

  The airline captain, who still hadn’t said a word, produced a pen from out of his shirt pocket and handed it over without breaking his silence, only one raised eyebrow betraying any reaction. Xander took it and then, ripping a flyer off a nearby wall, turned it over and sketched something on the back of it.

  “If I specify something exactly but can’t draw it,” Xander said, scribbling furiously and flinging the question at Boss without turning to look at him, “will that contraption follow through?”

  “You mean can it read your mind?” Dave said acerbically.

  “With context,” Boss said, “it should be able to do what you ask. There may be a need for fine tuning.”

  “Fine. Well, if I ask it for a pizza take–out box, it will know what that means, I hope. But take–out places need a logo, and come on, I can’t resist this. You know Munch’s Scream? Well, how about we substitute a Little Green Man Alien for the central figure, and here’s the design – ”

  He turned his sketch to show the others, and Andie Mae actually giggled. He had drawn a classic alien face, complete with the big black bug eyes, caught in the moment of a scream. Above it, in curlicued letters, he had written UFO PIZZA – and below, in roughly sketched capital letters, the slogan THE TASTE IS OUT OF THIS WORLD.

  “You’re crazy,” Dave said.

  “You’re amazing,” Andie Mae said, firmly. “Not to mention irretrievably weird. Can it do that?”

  Xander handed his design to Boss, who took it, looked at it, and then touched the surface of the replicator, opening up a thin slot into which he fed the paper Xander had given to him. After a moment the replicator did its thing, and the pizza on the central platform was now neatly encased in a flat brown box on top of which, in glorious and somewhat artistically improved detail, glowed a rendition of Xander’s design.

  “Wild,” Xander crowed. “This is just wild. I’ll take it in to them myself. I want to watch their faces.” He reached out and pulled the box out of the receptacle of the replicator, balancing it on the palms of both hands, and spun theatrically around on his heels. “In the meantime – just remember. Don’t think of Tribbles. Nobody think about Tribbles. You do remember what happened the last time someone thought about Tribbles near a replicator, don’t you? And we don’t have a convenient Klingon ship to dump them into this time. Just think about something entirely and completely different from Tribbles. Is everyone not thinking about Tribbles now? Good, my work here is done. Off to deliver pizza now. Out of this world pizza.” He cackled gleefully and stalked off in the direction of the gamers’ ballroom, bearing the pizza before h
im like a sacrificial offering.

  “One more good reason not to have these freely available in the corridors,” Dave muttered. “They make people insane. There goes one nutter already.”

  “Fine,” Andie Mae said, trying to sound stern and commanding but quite ruining the effect by the goofy grin that still wreathed her features. “Fine, then. We’ll do that. We’ll scatter them strategically and only access on a need–to–know basis, and honestly, this is entirely too much for anyone to need to know right now. Their needs will be met, for the time being, anyhow, does that take care of your objections, Luke?”

  “Er,” the hapless manager said, looking a little shell–shocked. “Er, I guess so. If there is anything…”

  “If there’s anything specific that’s a problem, just get one of us,” Dave said. “Or talk to Boss. He knows you’re one of the Chiefs. Doctor…?”

  “One of these will be in my control?” Dr. Cohen said, sounding faintly alarmed.

  “Essentially, yes,” Dave said. “Use it wisely. Er, Captain, I’m sorry, with all this I’ve spaced on your name – are there concerns you wanted to bring to our attention?”

  “Concerns?” Captain William Lindstrom said, with a slow smile and the faintest trace of a Southern drawl. “I might say I’m fascinated, perhaps just a little alarmed, but concerned? Hardly that. You have to realize…” He drew a deep breath. “Look, kids,” he said. “When I was a boy I idolized Neil Armstrong and James T. Kirk with an equal passion, and could not possibly make up my mind which of those two I wanted to grow up to be. Turns out, thanks to you guys, all I had to do was grow up to be myself – and here I am, kind of being both. It is, as your friend already said, wild.”

  “I thought you wanted to raise something…?” Luke said, turning his head sharply.

  “I just wanted to meet the people who were apparently in charge of the show,” Captain Lindstrom said, with a slow smile. “And perhaps shake someone’s hand. And say thank you. I tagged along with you and the good doctor when I heard you were going to go confront the relevant individuals, that’s all. I have no beef, none whatsoever – I think all this is absolutely marvelous, and I simply wanted to say thank you, to somebody. I’m not sure what the reason is behind any of this, or if there is one, but you know what, it doesn’t matter. So long as I got to go along for the ride. I’ll never forget this layover, kids. Much obliged!”

  He caught Dave’s eye and actually saluted smartly, and then took a half–step forward to pick up one of Andie Mae’s hands and bend over it in a gallant gesture of manners drawn from long–gone days. And then he turned away and sauntered off, whistling something tuneful and unidentifiable under his breath.

  “Well,” said Andie Mae, gazing at his retreating back, “I was worried about the non–con audience – but it looks like we have at least one fan out there. That’s a relief.”

  “Wait till we hit the moon,” Dave muttered darkly.

  “I hope not,” Andie Mae said. “For the record, Boss, we do want to avoid crashing into celestial bodies. Luke here is already worried stiff about the insurance claims.”

  “Will you take this seriously?” Dave said. “You just wait… and watch the stampede.”

  “We are monitoring our trajectory closely,” Boss said with maddening serenity. “There is no cause for alarm.”

  “Sure, so you say now,” Dave said. And then looked down and appeared to notice for the first time that he still held a half–full cup of aromatic brown brew. His brows knit into a frown as he stared at the cup and then lifted his eyes to the rest of his companions. “Does anyone want the rest of this silly tea?”

  Ξ

  By the time Xander caught up with the rest of the ConCom again, he was barely in time to breathlessly announce to the Con Ops room at large that the time was now or never if anyone wanted to go and observe the first panel of the con in which one of the androids had been roped into taking part. It was more than enough to send several people scrambling for the door, and Xander brought up the rear of the party, beaming with satisfaction.

  The panel room was packed, every seat taken and people sitting cross–legged on the floor right in front of the panel table and crowding in at the back where there was standing room only. The panel itself was on a topic that many of those present had seen discussed before at any number of conventions, and in the program book it went under the less than inspiring name of “When Is Your Villain Too Evil?” There were four original panelists, and the late addition to the table, perched somewhat uncomfortably to the side in a chair that did not appear to have been built to accommodate his particular specifications, his face expressionless, his attitude quite impassive, both hands resting palms down on his thighs, was the android whom Xander had dubbed Bob.

  The human panelists had introduced themselves and their works, and had then all turned with some curiosity to their newly–added colleague. The silver–skinned android registered the expectant silence, turned his head marginally in their direction, and then back to facing forward once more.

  “I am designated as B008199ZX5, and I understand that my secondary designation for the duration of the period I am projected to spend in this environment is Bob,” he said, following to the letter the protocol he had observed the other panelists use. He did not have any published works to mention, so he contented himself with that. After waiting for another moment to see if the android would say anything more, the panel moderator cleared his throat and faced the packed room again.

  “I guess we should maybe start by defining what exactly we mean by ‘villain’,” the moderator said. “In my experience it is often better to make sure right at the beginning that we’re all talking about the same thing – and on this topic there’s always been a swirling inexactitude around the concept of an actual villain and a mere antagonist. I would suggest that a character who is merely standing in a protagonist’s way, in some passive manner, or even someone who may be doing some active thing because of his or her own needs and requirements, even though that thing might get in our protagonist’s way is not a villain. A villain, to be worthy of the name, needs to have a concentrated and focused malicious intent squarely aimed at our protagonist’s wellbeing or even existence. Does the panel want to weigh in on this…?”

  The panel did, and a lively discussion began. The four human panelists entered into a vigorous debate and an engaged audience tossed in tidbits when they felt moved to do so (sometimes without actually being called on to speak by the moderator) but everyone appeared to be waiting for Bob to say something. The android sat silent and apparently intently listening to the whole discussion but not contributing a word to it. Until a young voice from the audience called out,

  “Bob, question for you – so do you see yourself as a villain or an antagonist, by the definition that Charlie put forward earlier?”

  Bob inclined his head. “Could you clarify the question?”

  “Well, as you know, Bob,” Charlie Tait, the moderator of the panel, said, turning to his co–panelist, “we’re all kind of captives here, right now, on a fantastical journey which a great many of us might well relish the idea of but to which none of us ever actually gave our informed consent. And we all have people we love or are responsible to or responsible for who may not have come with us to this weekend’s festivities because they don’t necessarily share our interests and passions – but to whom we are very closely connected, anyway, and at this moment have no way of even communicating with as to our situation, never mind offering them any reassurances as to our own continued safety and indeed survival – because, well, we don’t have such reassurances ourselves.”

  “It’s our convention, thus our story,” said Marlise Wong, a young up–and–coming graphic novel writer and artist whose trademark was over–the–top comic book villains; she was known to take great pleasure in creating curled mustachios for her bad guys to twirl while cackling over her protagonists’ often extremely improbable plight. Bob didn’t fit the type, but she’d go there
if the flow took the conversation in that direction. “So we’re the protagonists. But the story we signed up for was a fun–filled weekend in the company of like–minded people, after which we get to hug everyone goodbye and say ‘see you next time’ and go home without experiencing anything worse than possibly a particularly epic hangover. Instead… we came here… and we got… you. And a trip to the moon. And I think many of us are actually finding it difficult, despite the evidence of our own senses, to take any of this seriously because it’s a completely outlandish plot…”

  “Yes, and the best interpretation I can put on the situation right now is that you and your friends are… an unknown quantity,” Charlie said. “Many of us here – most of us, I would venture to suggest – are not at all clear on what you are here to accomplish, and what role we are supposed to play in that, if any at all, and if we really were just collateral damage to something that you and your friends planned without really taking our presence here into account – well – that’s at the very least the act of an antagonist who’s following his own agenda without regard to the protagonist’s wishes and needs. And that’s the charitable interpretation.”

  “To be sure,” said one of the members of the audience, “so far we’ve been treated pretty well and the whole thing’s been rather cool, as an experience…”

  “Would you have knowingly come to the con if you had had warning that this would happen?” Charlie said. “You might well say yes, right now, because everything’s so utterly exciting and we’re literally living in a world torn from the pages of our beloved and preferred genre of fiction. But when we come back down to earth…”

  “And who said we will, ever again?” someone in the audience shouted.

  Heads started to turn in that direction, the expressions on some faces taking on an edge of unease.

  “This is your earth,” Bob said unexpectedly. “We have made no direct changes to the environment – the composition of the air, the gravity, the environment in which you can exist in comfort and safety – all of that has been carefully controlled so that not one entity we are responsible for can be said to be harmed.”