A number of the party–throwers had been uneasy about just how much of a swing they could let their parties really go with, especially the adult–only ones where entrants were carded at the door by gatekeepers, with the very real possibility of literally running out of happy juice. Without actually telling anyone about the magic replicators, ConCom had allowed a hush–hush reassurance to percolate through to a select few prominent frontrunners from the party crowd that responsible parties would be kept supplied with requirements. Those who were particularly useful to the ConCom – in keeping con–goers amused, occupied and out of major harm’s way – were given hints that they would even maybe be given some extra special stuff, not on any menu or requisition list.
Xander (who really could not help himself) had already commanded a tankard of Romulan ale from the replicator secreted away in the Con Ops suite. He could not quite bring himself to unequivocally approve of the beverage which the replicator supplied in response to that request (there was no accounting for palate when it came to things like this, and no precedent) – but he did confess to someone that it tasted no worse than a particularly awful thing he had once been dared to drink that went by the description of “cranberry beer”, and opined that there would probably be plenty who would be willing to gag on the drink so long as they could add having tasted it at all to their resume.
ABDUCTICON MOON FLY–BY TONIGHT! read the headline of Libby’s latest newsletter, and it went to three reprints because every available copy was snatched as soon as it was produced and placed at the distribution points in the corridors to be picked up and collected. In it there was a largely hopeful list of ‘Thou Shalt Not’ items, or at the very least of ‘Please Don’t If You Can Help It’ suggestions. It reiterated that the hotel’s main doors would remain shut – but acknowledged that nobody could police every room in the hotel and pleaded with con–goers that if and when the urge came upon them to balance precariously on a railing so that someone could take a photo of them with a close–up of the Moon they should maybe go and lie down until the urge went away.
“We can’t stop them, you know,” Dave said, resigned. “You know they’re going to just do it, all of them – there is enough craziness out there tonight to run a crazy–engine a lot further than just around the Moon and back. I think they all started out as drunk, really, we all did, punch–drunk we all are, and anything they throw down the hatch on top of that isn’t really going to swing things back to the sane side of things.”
“What are they going to do with all the pictures?” Libby said. “They can’t think they can just post them on Facebook. They’d like as not get the Men in Black turning up on their doorsteps with vials of retcon memory wiping drugs at the ready.”
“At least they can’t just indiscriminately shoot and post right now,” Dave said. “There’s that. By the time everyone gets back into WiFi range and gets back their Internet and phone connections back…”
“There’s that,” Andie Mae murmured. “We have a population that is instinctively wired, and they’ve all been forced offline by the circumstances. We essentially have a crazy bunch of people deep into cold–turkey cyber withdrawal. It’s surprising that nothing truly outrageous has happened yet.”
“And anyway, with the pictures, people will just think Photoshop, or something of the sort,” one of the Green Room volunteers said.
“All of these people? They’re all going to tweak their pictures the exact same way, get the same damn thing?”
“There’s an app for that,” Xander murmured, and earned a sharp smack on the shoulder from Libby. “Ow. Okay, whatever. Look, with every lunatic out there… hey, that’s actually good, that’s literally true tonight, isn’t it? We’re all lunatics – moon–struck…”
“How much of that Romulan ale did you have?” Dave grumbled. “Every lunatic out there what?”
“Everyone will have a camera, a cellphone, something,” Xander said. “Live with it. Short of confiscating everyone’s electronics at the exit and deleting any incriminating pictures, we can’t… well, it isn’t our problem. It isn’t as though anyone will take anything we say about this seriously after we get back. It will all just serve to underline just how very very strange we all are.”
“Luke is going to lose it over liability,” Libby said, grinning. “People hanging out over tenth floor balconies…”
“Boss said nobody would come to any harm,” Andie Mae said firmly.
“They’re clairvoyant now?” Dave snapped. “How would they possibly know what could happen…”
“I actually think I have it figured out,” Xander said. “As of a little while ago, they all disappeared – but I tracked them down, or at least made Boss do it, and they’re strategically positioned at the four cardinal points. I have a feeling anyone who falls down will find themselves being wafted back up like on a cloud and deposited back on terra firma. Or on what passes for terra somewhat firma under the circumstances, anyway. For such values of terra firma that apply here and now which admittedly aren’t that much to write home about. Even if we could write home about it, which we…”
“All right, Xander,” Andie Mae said, with a swift cutting gesture of her hand. “What I would like to know, really, is what happens next. When are we going home? I mean, did they get what they came here for? And what if they have not? Are we going to be a kind of Flying Dutchman, whizzing back and forth between Moon and Earth, or whatever, until they’re – I don’t know – satisfied with something? With anything at all? I mean, we can put out only so many amusing newsletters before people start screaming for real answers…”
“As I understood it,” Xander said diffidently, “the plan was to literally slingshot around the Moon and use the admittedly puny gravitational pull to fling us back homeward…”
“Yes, and then?”
Xander shrugged. “Damned if I know. After that, it’s uncharted territory. Wait and see.”
“That isn’t very reassuring.” Dave said. “I mean, if the plan is really to go home – I keep on thinking about the really appallingly non–aerodynamic nature of this rock we’re on, and the tiny problem of, uh, our pesky atmosphere and all that lovely combustible oxygen that’s just waiting for us to hit it…”
Xander scowled at him. “Et tu, Dave?” he said “Seriously, I think the one thing that we can do right now – the one thing that we have to do, because there really isn’t any choice here – is to frigging stop applying any known laws of physics to whatever is happening to us right now. Only thus can we sail through this with our sanity intact. Stop trying to explain it, and just knuckle down and enjoy the ride.”
“But I can’t help thinking…”
“Listen,” Xander said, “here’s a few salient facts I seem to have stashed away in my brain about Apollo 8 – for some reason that one stuck far more than Number Eleven did, it’s, like, the first time we got there at all, the guys from Eleven just got to step on to the welcome mat and open the door but Eight was the first time we came to take a close look at the place and somehow… I know… it’s irrational, but it’s the first time we looked into the Moon’s eyes, close up, and it’s then that you fall in love…”
“Good grief, Xander. I never knew you were capable of waxing lyrical about this. Next thing, you’ll tell me you write moon poetry.”
“Sorry, no poetry. But still – stuff stuck with me, from Apollo 8. Like, for instance, the entire mission took something like – what was it again – a hundred and forty seven hours, all told, or something like that. Which works out to – what – about six days. But that’s including about a day’s worth of spinning around the Moon, so let’s call it two–and–a–bit days there and two–and–a–bit days back. At something like 25,000 miles an hour. That’s according to the laws of physics as we know them. You cannae change the laws of physics, as the holy writ says, but Scotty did frequently and oh, look, so did our android overlords. We’re reaching the Moon in less than half the time it took Apollo to do it, which means we’re travelling at
fifty thousand freaking miles an hour, but we’ve got comfy gravity and nobody’s pressed up against the floor or the ceiling with their faces squashed flat by gravitational acceleration pressure, and… just stop, would you? My brain hurts trying to get it all figured out and it’s all meaningless anyway because they aren’t playing by the rules we know.”
“Uh,” Dave said. “That makes me feel a whole lot better. Not.”
“I’ve spies out there who are contracted to come screaming to me if anything really awful happens tonight,” Xander said. “Not that there is much we can do about it, understand, but we’ll be kept informed.”
“Are you sure it isn’t time for a colorful metaphor right about now, Captain?” Dave said.
“Stop it, Cranky,” Andie Mae said, grinning. “Come on up to Callahan’s and have an early drink while you wait for zero hour. That’s the best viewing vantage, all those picture windows up there on the twentieth floor, best seats in the house. And remember, it’s a closed party up there. ConCom and guests, tonight. Invitation only. No crowds and no loonies. Stop worrying. You won’t change anything. Come on, let’s go.”
“I’ll meet you there in a bit,” Xander said. “I think I’m going to do a circuit first, see how the hoi polloi are doing down here. Yes, yes, I know, what will be will be and the droids are pulling their magic trick so that nobody goes for a spacewalk tonight – but I’m going to do a round anyway. Just because.”
“Should be me,” Andie Mae said, sounding contrite. “I should at least come with you. I’m the one who’s ultimately responsible for…”
“Ego te absolvo,” Xander said, going full Black Friar and making a sweeping sign of the cross over her. “Go, I’ll catch up.”
Most of the ConCom and the Green Room volunteers took that as a signal for departure; two stayed, just in case of any real emergencies, so that the rest of the con would have a point of contact with the committee, but the rest all piled out and headed across to Tower 2, the tallest tower of the resort, and the elevators to the bar on the top floor, voices rising in excitement. Xander peeled off and made for Tower 3 – which, incongruously, housed both the party wing of the convention (spread across the two lowest floors) and Dr. Cohen’s makeshift infirmary for the temporarily mindblown, safely sequestered from the rest of the convention and with at least three of Simon’s security people on duty at all access points to that floor in case some reveler in his cups attempted a breach of the perimeter. Xander was starting to have an uncomfortable feeling that this set–up – which had seemed perfectly adequate when first mooted – might crumble dangerously this night. All it would take was for somebody from the party floors to suggest that the party–goers would have a better view from an upstairs room, and if enough of them tried to claim such a room Simon’s troops could be overwhelmed.
Xander tapped his earpiece.
“Simon,” he said, “can you hear me?”
“Yo,” the Security Chief said into his ear, crackling a little.
“I was just thinking – about Tower 3 – ”
“Way ahead of you. The praetorian guard has been reinforced tonight, us and the hotel people, we’re on it.”
“You’re going to miss it all,” Xander said unexpectedly. “Aren’t you?”
“I’ll make a plan,” Simon said. “We’ll try and let everyone have at least a glimpse of it. The hotel crew knows that we’ll all be taking at least a short leave of absence sometime tonight – but we’ll try and stagger it so that there is always a full complement of people on duty. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure everyone gets their moon shot.”
“Okay, then,” Xander said. “Call me if you have any problems.”
“Will do. Enjoy. Over and out.”
The party floor was jumping when Xander got there. It was, by now, more one huge party than anything confined to any one room. People were spilling from open doorway to open doorway, laughing and dancing. One of the rooms on the first floor had been set up as a makeshift Karaoke room, and just as Xander happened to be passing by in the corridor outside, one guy who was tipsy enough to have lost all inhibitions but not yet drunk enough to lose any native ability was doing a really quite passable version of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” to a large and appreciative audience who were joining in from time to time as they snatched at a familiar phrase from the lyrics and sang along.
“Heyyy, Xander!” One of the people from the Karaoke room, close to the exit, had happened to glance outside and spot Xander hovering in the corridor, listening in. “Wanna come in and try one?”
“I don’t think you’d appreciate me singing,” Xander said, with a grin.
“Eh, like it matters if you’re Pavarotti. Everyone gets a go. It’s got to be a moon–song, this set, though. We’ve been having a few repeats – “Blue Moon” and “Moon River” have been popular, and this is probably the fifth time someone has picked this particular one, not entirely surprising when you look out the window – somebody stretched it a bit with that old chestnut “Catch a Falling Star” but he sang it in full persona with a totally Frankenfurter pink feather boa, it was a riot – can you think of anything we’ve missed?”
“I’ll think about it,” Xander said. “I’ll look in on my way back from the rounds.”
“We’ll be here!”
Xander could catch a glimpse of the moon as he passed by rooms, over the heads of the partygoers, now large and bone–white and with definite geographical features beginning to separate out. They had been right, upstairs in the Green Room, when they had talked about photographs, because there were cameras and camera phones everywhere.
“Hey, look! It’s little green men!” someone hollered from one of the rooms, and a deafening squeal went up as people fell toward the windows.
“Where?”
“Where are you looking?”
“Shove off, my turn!”
“Hey, give a girl a chance!”
“Say cheese! Hey, is the moon really made of it?”
“Over there! Look!”
“Are we going to see the flag?”
“Oh, can’t we just, I don’t know, beam up some moon dust?”
“Squash up! If you want to have some of the moon in the shot and not just your grinning mugs, you have to squash up! You, tall guy, over to the left…”
They all sounded as though they were high, which was perfectly understandable – everyone was riding the edge, that was what happened when the impossible became a reality that couldn’t be avoided. But just as Xander reached a point where he could begin to convince himself that these were con people – geeky enough to have absolutely accepted the impossible, invited it in, and were throwing the party of a lifetime for it – that they were doing all right, and that he could safely leave them to their revels – he was graphically reminded not to take anything for granted. Not ever; and especially not right at that moment.
It was two unexpected and back–to–back encounters in the corridors that did it.
The first was a young woman whom he encountered curled up by one of the large windows, her face streaked with the dried tracks of tears shed in some previous paroxysm of weeping. She was no longer crying, though, and somehow the tragic silent stillness of her figure made Xander suddenly wary. He crouched beside her, laying a gentle hand on her arm.
“Hey, are you all right?” he asked softly.
She raised her eyes to him, and they were startlingly blank, terrifyingly blank, as though she had ridden the rollercoaster straight through the House of Horrors and left her soul inside.
“We’re going to die,” she said, her voice oddly inflectionless, reminding him of the way the lower androids spoke – just the words, no underlying feeling or emotion or the kind of irrational complexity that drove a flesh–and–blood human being. Just a mindless conviction. She was a zombie, emotionally flatlined, and Xander’s fingers trembled where they rested on her arm.
“No,” he said, keeping his voice soft and calm and reassuring. �
�No, we’re not. It’s all going to be fine.”
“We’re going to die,” she repeated. That seemed to be all she had – everything else had been scoured away, by the Moon’s relentless closeness, its overwhelming physical presence, the sheer weight of the flat white light spilling into the hallway all around her.
Xander lifted her to her feet, as gently as he could, putting both hands on her shoulders and hauling her upright – and she responded bonelessly, obediently, flopping like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
“I’d better take you to the doc,” Xander muttered. “Maybe he has a spare happy pill… come on, then. This way.”
She walked, kind of, where he led – but only because he had his arm around her waist and was literally supporting her in the upright position – if he had removed the supporting arm she would have just collapsed on the floor where he dropped her, staring into nothing, repeating her conviction of everyone’s collective and presumably imminent demise.
Halfway to the elevators, he came on his second wake–up call – another con–goer, also very calm, who seemed to be wandering down the corridor and stopping anyone wearing any shade of red, poking them in the chest with his forefinger.
“Red shirt,” he would say. “Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt. You’re disposable. You’re dead. You won’t make it home from this mission. Shoot to kill. Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt.”
He turned to look at Xander and the girl whom he was practically carrying, and focused on the top she was wearing… which happened to be a dusty pink shade, not exactly red, but it seemed to be close enough for the doomsayer. He poked at the girl’s shoulder.
“Red shirt,” he said. “You’re going to…”
“Okay, now,” Xander interrupted sharply. The last thing his zombie–girl needed right now was for someone to actually confirm that she was going to die. “I think you’d better come along, too.”
“Red shirts. Someone’s got to tell them,” the guy said earnestly.
“These people already know. Come with me, I know a whole entire floor that you need to go and warn about this.”
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