But it had been a few years since I’d last attended a Paws’N’Claws convention, and I was pleased to see that it had slowly but steadily grown in attendance, and was now held in the Windy Woods Convention Center, a huge, elaborate complex located in the still-rural outskirts of Savannah, Georgia. One major reason I was so pleased that the convention complex was rurally located was that it was also relatively easy to secure. It had on-site hotel facilities that easily handled all the attendees, merchants and con staff, and the two hundred acres of high-fenced land it sat in the middle of had one heavily-gated entrance and plenty of open area around the buildings. This made it surprisingly difficult for undesirables to gain access to the complex as long as ample security forces were on guard---which they were---carefully but ever-so-politely checking the identities of everyone as they came and went.
True to B’naah’s promise to Simon Branch, we brought along a “few” additional friends, including one each from the other three alien species, along with a small contingent of special security, including our security chief, Booker Jones. The convention center staff were familiar with the Paws’N’Claws volunteer staff and the usual unconventional attendees, but they were not told just who---or what---the “special guests” would be; only that they required additional security, and that the additional security personnel would be as unobtrusive and cooperative as possible.
These people would also be armed.
The convention staff arrived and began setting up several truckloads of A/V and party gear a day early, and many attendees and arts and crafts vendors also showed up in advance of Paws’N’Claws’ Friday afternoon opening ceremonies. Our security forces had arrived an extra day early, on Wednesday, and gone over the entire complex both with bug sweepers and “eyeball peepers”, looking for anything suspicious---nothing found. When the convention gear and vender equipment began arriving, the security guys thoroughly---but politely, with smiles, jokes and even laughter!---screened every item, from artwork to books to models, even cute, fuzzy little animal plushies. Nothing was left to chance. Booker Jones was determined not to have a repeat of the “Five Past Midnight surprise”, and to his credit---well, he didn’t.
What actually happened was far worse.
Our personnel got our suites ready, and Booker and I made a point of going through the long pre-registration line Thursday evening, getting our convention ID badges and (much more importantly) mingling with many of the convention staff, several of them old friends of mine. Afterwards, we took Simon Branch and a few of his lieutenants out to dinner---my favorite, Brunswick Stew, was on the menu!---and did our best to calm their nerves.
“Buddy,” I told him around a delightful spoon of Georgia’s best, “this is going to go butter-smooth, and you’re gonna be the Man of the Hour once the attendees discover just who---and what---you’ve landed as Guests of Honor.” He’d already used his asthma inhaler once that I knew of, and I damned well didn’t want him having a debilitating attack; certainly not now. “We’ll bring our alien friends in via motor home tomorrow afternoon just before opening ceremonies and slip them in the employee entrance, but keep them sequestered back stage. You’ll introduce me and give the people a bit of my background, which will probably give them something to start buzzing about. Then, I’ll prime the pump with, ‘But wait---there’s more!’, just before bringing out our friends, who will stand with you and me on-stage.” Branch was breathing hard, but seemed to be stable. “After opening ceremonies Booker and I will take our friends to their separate rooms---trust me, there’s a reason you don’t room a big bunny with big predators!---to let them relax a bit, then we’ll circulate throughout the center for a while and talk to the attendees before supper, and then again afterwards.” Branch nodded as he absorbed the agenda. “It’s unfortunate,” I continued, “but some of the evening programs and panels may be...well...poorly attended.” Branch shrugged. He was a realist. “Saturday evening there will be a special “Meet & Greet” event with the aliens for the premium-badge holders, and I think that once word of that gets out you’ll have a lot of basic-level attendees opting to upgrade their attendance level, which will, of course, bring in more money for the convention.” Booker and a few others chuckled, and Branch broke out into a grin.
“If that happens,” he said, “we may have to move the event to a larger room! Imagine the fun!”
Yeah. Imagine the headaches.
And as planned, opening ceremonies actually went well. The convention center had a large indoor amphitheater, and after the usual opening ceremonies blather Branch, sporting his trademark clip-on cat ears and floor-length cat tail, introduced me as the first human to undergo the alien rejuvenation process. That was a great hit with the crowd, but after a few words of thanks I quieted the room. Showtime!
“Papa Cat told you,” I enthused, “that he’d have a blockbuster surprise---” Cheers and whistles. “---but I’m not the surprise!” Boy did that tweak them! “No, I’m really just small potatoes up here; the real surprise is waiting back stage, and I’m going to bring them out in just a moment.” Them? Ooh---! “There’s a reason our usual group of fursuiter friends aren’t up here with us like in the past...because we’re bringing you the real deal---!” Here it comes! “Ladies and gentlebeings, let me introduce to you Doctor N’looma and her assistant L’raan, the Yularians who, along with other medical staff, were instrumental in giving me a new lease on life!” Everywhere in the audience were wide-open eyes and dropped jaws! “Also, I’ve brought along three other off-world friends; Boo’nah, a male cheetah-like Eelon, Cirra’ha, a male otter-like Dralorian, and Ykkera, a male hare-like Ar’kaa (don’t call him a ‘bunny’---he hates that!),” I finished with a stage whisper.
The place was mostly silent for about five heartbeats, then pandemonium erupted! While nobody jumped from their seats and bolted for the doors as the aliens hesitantly joined Simon Branch and me on stage, some of the audience in the semi-circular tiered amphitheater literally jumped up on the rows of tables in front of their chairs out of sheer exuberance. Maybe fear, too. I couldn’t tell, and really didn’t care. Dammit, it was time for people to grow the hell up, and this was as good a place as any to begin.
My alien stage mates had been warned that their reception might be a bit raucous, but even Branch and I were a bit surprised at the audience’s overwhelming enthusiasm. These people (including those wearing fursuits in the audience) were absolutely ecstatic to see the aliens, and the raw desire to actually meet them appeared to be a physical force in the room. After a few eternal moments of bedlam Branch and I began calling for calm, but it took a good five minutes to quiet the crowd enough for me to be heard.
“Our friends have come a long way to meet you,” I began, “and they’re here for the whole weekend!” Cheers and whistles erupted again. “I promise that everybody who wants to get a bit of face-time with our friends will have a chance to do so!” ‘Face-time’?, several of the aliens muttered nervously in my direction, and I softly assured them it was nothing bad. “But for now our friends are going to retire to their rooms and relax a bit, and give Papa Cat time to finish the opening ceremony and get everything rolling. We’ll be back out and about before supper, then again afterwards, but for now---ciao!” I waved, and the aliens did as well before we strolled off the stage.
“As we discussed earlier,” I reminded the small group once we were behind the curtain, “your rooms are secure, and Booker and his staff will escort you there now. They won’t allow anyone to stop you in the halls, and I’ll be along in time to take you to a secure area where we can socialize with the humans in comfort. Any trouble, Booker’s people will be there to deal with it---so go relax! These people think you’re the best thing to ever happen to them; they love you!” My Yularian vixens were relatively comfortable around humans, but the other aliens, while specially selected by their embassies for this event, were still more than a bit nervous.
Me? I was terrified.
As promised, once an hour had
passed Booker and I rounded up our alien guests---the Ar’kaa really didn’t want to leave his room---and slowly made our way into one of the large, open areas of the convention center. Surprisingly, many of the conventioneers, and the majority of the animal-themed fursuiters, suddenly developed a case of shyness, trading their earlier enthusiasm at finally meeting genuine anthropomorphic aliens for a nervous reluctance to actually approach and speak to them. Up close, the man-sized rabbit-like Ar’kaa didn’t seem nearly as ‘fluffy’ as the rabbit-suited humans; the tall, thin Eelon---who had impressive feline fangs and fixed, formidable cat claws---actually seemed more intimidating than zoo-raised cheetahs. Only the sleek otter-like Dralorian, with his lush fur and relatively friendly face, managed to attract a few brave souls...who quickly found themselves at a loss for words. What DO you say to the first alien you meet? Certainly not ‘take me to your leader!’, or ‘how do you like it here?’, or ‘can I pet you?’
“Boo’nah,” I whispered to the Eelon as people crowded around---but not too closely!---to take photographs, “that blonde female with the pink KittyKat shirt might be a promising subject to begin with, to get them actually talking with you. If I bring her over will you try not to scare her so bad she wets her pants?”
He chuffed in amusement, saying, “No promises, Tom. So far I’ve made every human female and several of your males in my embassy lose bladder control. I haven’t even gotten started here.”
I shook my head. “C’mon, buddy!” I hissed. “Don’t start the night off by being a dick!”
Raising his furry eyebrows and showing just the hint of fangs, he countered, “I can assure you, Tom, my male member is properly hidden from sight within my shorts.”
Honest-to-God, the name on her I.D. badge was ‘Buffy’, and it had a cartoony image of a blonde-furred cat on it that matched the print on her blouse. I’d quickly stepped over and began pulling the young woman towards the big cheetah, saying, “You like cats; here’s a big one you can actually talk with!” When you move fast and don’t give people a chance to refuse, it’s amazing what you can get them to do. She was so surprised---probably in shock---that I was able to nudge her to within comfortable conversation range of the Eelon.
“Buffy, meet Boo’nah.” She reflexively held out a hand and with predator speed he gently snagged it with both hands, wrapping it in a firm, furry embrace---and shook it in a human-style greeting, a trace of a slightly evil smile on his feline features. But no teeth!
“Hello, Buffy,” he rumbled, his voice substantially lower-pitched than the bird-like chirp sounds a wild cheetah makes. “Are you going to be my first victim tonight?” When she sputtered in confusion he explained, “I usually can make a human pee their pants when I first meet them---” and he suddenly flashed a ferocious predator grin, then pointedly glanced below her waist, but seemed surprised not to find a dark stain spreading. Looking back at her face he saw, not terror, but humor!
“Silly kitty!” she laughed. “Tom wouldn’t bring someone dangerous to Paws & Claws!” Boo’nah’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Cheetahs are my favorite big cats, and I bet you’re just a big ol’ softie!” Her free hand moved like she wanted to stroke his fur, but the young woman exercised remarkable restraint---and didn’t.
“I...I---” the Eelon sputtered. “We are the apex predators on our world!” he haughtily declared, releasing her hand to hold his arms wide, the claw-tipped fingers threatening. “We hunt everything!”
“May I...stroke your fur, Boo’nah-kitty?” Buffy asked, unruffled.
“Why certainly n---” he began haughtily, then, “um...yes...but don’t pull on it. That---hurts,” he almost mewed.
She reached her right hand up and caressed his cheek. “So soft and silky,” she crooned. “I bet you spend just hours brushing it every day.” The big cat blinked slowly and actually purred.
I’d watched their incredible interplay out of the corner of my eye, and would have been totally entranced if I hadn’t also been trying to watch what else was going on.
My Yularian friends were deep into conversations, laughter and comparisons of the fox-themed fursuits with their own natural physiology, so after a moment I thankfully ignored them. Ykkera, the big rabbit, seemed to be having a stern, quiet discussion with Bryce Mickleson, one of the two human ‘escorts’ Booker Jones had assigned to protect him. Stan Johnson, Ykkera’s other guard, was keeping an eagle eye on the crowd, but didn’t seem uncomfortable. Something nagged at me, though. Mickleson was one of Booker’s long-time associates, and I’d had passing contact with him in the past. He’d always been professional but friendly, yet ever since he’d stepped out of the motor home before opening ceremonies he’d been strangely aloof, almost distant. I wondered if he was having issues with his ‘bunny’ charge. Cirra’ha, the otter-like Dralorian, had apparently found kindred souls in an athletic young couple. They were happily discussing favorite water sports and locations here on Earth, most of them the Dralorian had yet to experience, and the growing crowd around them was caught up in the enthusiasm of the conversation.
But something drew my attention back to the Ar’kaa, or more correctly, Mickleson, his guard---and in that instant I knew we were in trouble.
Bryce Mickleson stepped away from the Ar’kaa and moved purposefully in my direction, his eyes---oh, his eyes; the pupils were so big it looked as if he’d just come from the optometrist’s office. If the whites of his eyes had been yellow, they’d have looked just like--- “Shit!” I yelped.
As he’d approached me he reached under his loose-fitting shirt and produced a small Glock 9mm pistol, quickly bringing it to bear on my chest. Something faintly clicked in my head like it had done several times before, and before I could take evasive action a slender human arm struck the hand pointing the pistol just as it fired, knocking it up. The bullet zziinnnged a hot path over my left shoulder, the muzzle blast deafening my left ear as I finally began to react to the threat, planting a fist square in Mickleson’s chest. But that was far from the end, as a yellow/black blur pounced on the man, taking them both to the floor! The Eelon was all over the struggling man, biting, clawing, ripping at him like the predator he claimed to be. Mickleson made no sound, no screams or cries as he fought like a demon, eventually shooting his feline assailant before tossing the lighter, suddenly limp alien off him like a big doll. Then the man, bleeding from numerous slashes and gashes, carefully took aim at the big cat’s head---
---And was bowled over by a human dynamo wearing a pink, cat-decorated blouse!
Buffy wasn’t heavy or strong, but she made up for that by being insanely furious, flailing and screaming incoherently to the point the big man seemed momentarily at a loss as to how best to remove her. By that time other security members were beginning to react, trying desperately to protect their charges while determining how to neutralize the rouge agent. I stomped on his gun arm and he dropped the weapon---and then he convulsed...and quit struggling. It took several of us to pull the enraged Buffy off the man, but by that time I noticed the pupils of his eyes had contracted to pinpoints---just like the wolves in the TV studio. I also caught a faint whiff of singed flesh but didn’t see any obvious burn marks on his bloody, clawed head.
But I knew there was at least one, maybe more, there in the carnage.
Once they’d pulled Buffy off the comatose guard, she pounced on the big alien cat, screaming for help. He was semi-conscious and trying to move, but before more than a few seconds passed both Yularians had arrived; B’naah and L’raan barking orders to their guards to fetch their med kits from their room now! My left ear wasn’t working, and the right one was ringing and stinging, but I began yelling for Booker to electronically shut down any and all electronic transmissions into and out of the convention center. Then I barked at one of the con staff to fetch Branch’s asthma inhaler from his room, and another to bring him to our location ASAP. People were screaming, crying, shouting and, in general, panicking like terrified crowds usually do. I’d seen Branch deal wit
h emergencies in the past, and we needed his towering presence.
I just prayed nobody had managed to send any photos, tweets or posts of the incident before Booker’s people could shut communications down. Damage control was going to be a bitch.
Chapter 26
Put a Lid On It
Simon Branch arrived at a breathless trot right about the time the convention medic did, and thankfully the man had Branch’s asthma inhaler in his kit. One look at the bloody bodies on the carpet and Branch started to hyperventilate. “Mike! Inhaler now!” I snapped, and the medic literally jammed the little device in Branch’s mouth and forced him to take a heavy (probably heavier than recommended) dose. The director’s legs were wobbly and two of his staffers helped steady him. One of them straightened his clip-on cat ears. I damned sure didn’t need him collapsing, not with an emergency swirling around us like hornets from a poked nest.
“Time to make the donuts, Simon!” I said as steadily as I could. “The immediate threat is over, but you’ve got nearly a thousand people crapping their pants, and we’re depending on YOU, big guy, to settle them down. Get your people into high gear and move everyone---including all the center’s staff---out onto the front lawn. Booker’s people will help. People absolutely cannot use their cell phones, tablets or laptops; this must be kept quiet until we get things under control. By that time I’ll know how bad things are and we’ll go from there.” His eyes still wide from shock, I shook the big man’s shoulders---hard! “Simon! Buddy! It’s crunch time, old friend. We need you---I need you! Let’s roll!”
To his credit, he sobbed twice, shuddered, then like the rodeo star he’d been in his salad days, he sucked up the terror and anguish and climbed back in the saddle.
Booker had radioed for a technician in the motor home outside to activate a blanket Internet/cell phone jammer, but I secretly prayed Bertha had beat him to the punch. She obviously had abilities beyond our comprehension, so I hoped she’d managed to keep any information about this from getting to the general public. At that point I didn’t know if I had a dead alien on my hands, but I knew damned well that Booker’s old friend Bryce Mickleson was a goner; while technically he was still alive, with occasional rise and fall breathing movements, I knew he’d be dead soon, and I knew exactly who---or what---was responsible.
Last Dance of the Phoenix Page 21
