About that time runners showed up with the Yularians’ med kits, and they both started work on the wounded Eelon, who was showing signs of regaining his faculties. Buffy (her real name, I learned, was Cindy Rogers) was hovering over the big cat like he was her long-lost brother, but she was (mostly) reluctantly keeping out of the way while the Yularians began treating his gunshot wound.
That let me turn my attention to the soon-to-be-dead guard, and I motioned to one of Booker’s remaining men. “I know this is going to be hard to do, but you need to get Mickleson out to the motor home and keep an armed guard on him at all times until further notice.” The man looked like he was going to cry, and I couldn’t blame him. Bryce Mickleson had been a good guy, with a wife and small kids waiting for a daddy who would never play with them again. “Billy,” I said to the guard, “I’ve seen this before, and so has Booker. For all intent and purpose, Bryce is dead. The cat’s wounds didn’t stop him, but Booker knows what did, and I can guarantee it was nothing any of us did.” When the man didn’t move I said, softly, “Now, Billy. We’re all in danger if he stays here.” Billy Thompson was a pro; he put his feelings in a pocket and did what was required.
“L’raan,” I called when I crouched down with the vixens and the young woman, “how bad---?”
The young vixen glanced at me, then looked closer. “Tom!” she yelped. “The side of your head is...is burned!” I waved off her concern, pointing to the wounded cat.
“I can wait, and the damage can be fixed. I need to know how Boo’nah is.”
“He’s not as heavily muscled as a human, and the projectile passed through his upper shoulder area,” B’naah stated in a clinical manner, “and apparently hit no bone or major artery. It exited his body and I am cleaning the wound as best as possible, but he will require better medical attention than I can give him here, mainly due to the powder burn on his chest and any fur that might contaminate the wound channel.” The old vixen was incredibly efficient. “We need to call for one of our transports to take him to his home world for proper treatment.” She glanced at me and added, “And you need to let L’raan treat the powder burns on your head. If your ear is damaged, we may have to take you to Yularia to repair it as well.”
Great. Another trip in cold sleep. I could hardly wait.
“Let me up!” the Eelon snarled, and was firmly snarled at in return by the old vixen.
“You will remain lying down like the lazy cat you are, Boo’nah,” she told him---and he obeyed! I’d never seen an Eelon do anything he didn’t want to do; feline obstinace, I’d been told. “You are hurt, and I am your doctor,” she stated. “You can thank your young human female friend for saving your life, since the guard was preparing to shoot you in the head when she pounced on him.” Boo’nah’s big eyes got wider as he looked at the terrified young woman. “She also saved our Thomas Barnes’ life by striking the guard’s hand, thereby deflecting the killing shot.”
“You, my friend,” I said to the cat, “also saved my life by pouncing on him after that first shot.” I grasped his left paw in a firm grip. “I’m just sorry you took a bullet, one that was meant for me.”
“This human...B-buffy...pounced on the guard?” Boo’nah rasped. “But---why?” The young woman stroked his head and held his other hand (B’naah had shooed me away while she worked). “Why would...would you risk your life for---?”
“Silly kitty!” Cindy “Buffy” Rogers yelped, tears streaming down her face. “You’re a person! People...people help people! We don’t just stand there and let them be hurt!” His mouth opened, but no words came out. “You jumped on the guard to keep him from killing Tom, so what’s the difference? We all help each other!”
Wish it worked that way everywhere.
L’raan cleaned my powder burns and put some wonderful, cooling salve on them, but there was nothing that could be done for my left ear’s ruined hearing. Luckily the blast hadn’t blinded my left eye! Regardless, my injuries could be dealt with later. At that point I needed to do major damage control, so I had a runner get me a bullhorn (the con actually had one!) and I headed out to the front lawn where the milling crowd was waiting.
But first I made sure the cowering Ar’kaa had been sent to his room, under guard. I didn’t trust him, and didn’t want him getting in the way. Cirra’ha, the Dralorian, wanted to go with me, and surprisingly so did Boo’nah, who brushed off B’naah’s protests and staggered to his feet---only to lean on the Rogers woman who seemed more than pleased to help. Interesting!
Then it was time to face the music, and I’d played lousy clarinet in school.
It was hot as only the Deep South can be in the late afternoon summertime, and the huge crowd was suffering, even though Booker’s men had brought cases of chilled bottled water out to them. The fursuiters were especially miserable, and while some had doffed their head pieces---something almost verboten in the performing fandom---a few stalwarts still had on their full outfits. That had to change, and fast.
Climbing up a small ladder a staffer had brought out, I keyed the bullhorn and called for order. Much to my surprise they quickly quieted down, many of those in front taking seats on the lush grass. My alien friends---sans the Ar’kaa whom I didn’t trust---gathered around the base of the ladder, as did Booker Jones and Simon Branch.
“This day started out so great, and went down the tubes faster than any of us could imagine,” I said. “I’m sorry, and my friends and Papa Cat are sorry, and we’re really sorry to have to temporarily block your access to cell phones and social media---but here’s why: We’re at war!” Boy did THAT ever get their attention, and it took a good five minutes to quiet them down enough to further explain. “While you won’t like what I’m going to say, many of you have known me for a long time---and I’m asking...no, begging!...you to trust me on this. There’s a lot going on that I cannot tell you, but from what we---both our human governments and the Yularians---know, we appear to be at war with an unknown enemy. This is an enemy that especially wants me and my alien friends dead, and it apparently doesn’t care how many others it kills to achieve that goal. Our governments are trying to find out how and why this is happening, but as many of you may have seen on TV a short while ago this is not the first attack my two vixen friends and I have endured, and it may not be the last---especially if the enemy succeeds.” I swallowed; this was going to be hard. “Killing us, we believe, will just be the beginning of the deaths, so here’s where we desperately need your help. Today’s attack failed, and while my Eelon friend Boo’nah took a bullet wound that will need additional medical attention, the attacker---one of our trusted Federal security officers, for pity sake!---is currently fighting for his life, even though his injuries weren’t all that bad. Why he ‘went rogue’ is a mystery (no, it wasn’t) but we’ll eventually figure that out. What IS important is that he did not succeed!” The crowd erupted in sporadic cheers that grew...and grew...and became deafening! Too bad I only had one ear to appreciate it.
“Hey, thanks for the support, but it ain’t over---the fat lady hasn’t sung!” That broke them into nervous laughter that eventually died out. “I’m sure a lot of you got pictures and videos of the terrible scene, and you’re just itching to share them, post them, spread them all over the world---” I paused, and the crowd looked a bit uncomfortable. “But here’s what I’m asking---what I’m begging!” And at that point I really was begging. “Some of you are here for the fantasy, some for the friendship, some for the...the wonderful insanity that is a well-run furry convention. And some of you, especially the Windy Woods staff itself, are here to make a paycheck and pay bills. I’m not asking for any of you to not have a good time, to not party and socialize and make your paychecks for this weekend. What I am asking for you to do is to wait before you put images, videos, emails, tweets and blog posts of this horrible, ugly incident out for public consumption. Help us keep a lid on this for at least a week, because we think that, in that short time period, we might get a handle on this...this thi
ng, and in doing so avoid a world-wide panic that could ruin our relations with our furry alien friends.” Man, did I ever have their attention!
“Give me a week,” I implored, “then you can blast this as far and wide as you want. I realize you’re itching to spread the news...but is this really the kind of news you want to spread, at least right now?” You could hear crickets in the nearby woods chirping. “I think my friends here realize that we’re all a lot more alike under our skin and fur than we first realized, and while our Eelon friend will have to leave for higher-level medical care, and the Ar’kaa’s nerves couldn’t handle the stress (yeah, right), our Dralorian friend, Cirra’ha, and our Yularian friends are planning to stay the weekend and visit with everybody!” Cheers went up from the crowd, and it was quite a while before they settled down. “We are family here at Paws’N’Claws, and families stick together and have fun!” More cheers. “Finally,” I added, “my Yularian friends and I are going to California next week to appear live on the new ‘Wake Up America!’ show. After that airs, you’ll be free to tell the world what happened here.” It got quiet again. I sure didn’t want to spoil the convention and drop the draconian blanket of ‘martial law’ on them, and I knew Simon Branch was holding his breath. Then I smiled and said with a flourish, “I hope with all my heart that you’ll help us and be fair! We sure didn’t ask for this trouble, but if things work out we’ll all have an incredible future---together, furs, aliens and humans forever!”
The pandemonium was incredible.
Chapter 27
To Fly Like a Bird…
Sunday night’s closing ceremonies at Paws’N’Claws was more bitter-sweet than normal. Simon Branch had mostly recovered from the shock of having his beloved convention turned upside down, but we all had tried to put a positive spin on it, regardless. The Dralorian spoke glowingly of the places he wanted to visit with his new friends, and how he believed his experiences with his new human friends might attract others of his kind. The two Yularian vixens had done marvelous PR work as well, and I felt that quite a number of young---and not-so-young---men were having private fantasies about L’raan. While she wasn’t human, she really was a cute, sexy little thing---and she knew it.
Our aloof Ar’kaa representative had been hustled back to his embassy on the same Yularian transport that came to pick up the wounded Eelon. I didn’t want him around, and it was obvious he didn’t want to be there, either. Good riddance!
One departure that, in a way, did surprise me, though, was when young, blonde ‘Buffy’ Rogers literally demanded to accompany her new, injured big cat friend, Boo’nah, to his home world. Initially I’d thought her no more than a spoiled little rich kid, but her actions under fire quickly shredded that thought. She offered to pay her way, but the big cheetah pulled a few strings with his government and got the travel fee waived. That really surprised me. Apparently there was a bit more cross-species attraction there than I’d realized!
Next to the convention center was a small regional airport, and I’d had my little Diamond Twin flown in from Florida over the weekend. I brushed off the vixens’ concerns about my injured face and ear, promising to let their ‘superior’ medical system address the problem once we were through with the upcoming TV interview. Wearing the necessary headphones, though, hurt like a bitch, and with only one functional ear I had to listen extra-close to catch the radio transmissions.
We got airborne late that Monday morning, heading for a new TV studio in downtown Burbank, California. In an emergency we could have made the trip in one long day (and most of a night since I was instrument rated) but there was no need to push it. Tired was our overall condition, and that meant we’d stop about half-way across the country for much-needed sleep. Bertha had informed us over the weekend that Bryce Mickleson did, indeed, die shortly after he was moved to the motor home, and a quick exploratory autopsy by her spiders (the motor home had a dozen, but they’d not been needed in the convention center) found a pea-sized bio-mechanical ‘something’, similar to what was found in the wolves’ brains, buried deep within Mickleson’s brain, with wispy little organic-like wires running from it into virtually every section of his skull. Bertha said she had no idea how long it had been there, but she was working to develop a method of unobtrusively scanning for such devices in all of Art Goldman’s staff, civilian and military alike. Including him.
We overnighted in Oklahoma City, landing at the Will Rogers World Airport but staying a short ways away at a pleasant Hampton Inn rebuilt in the historic F5 tornado devastation zone. “The sign says they’re ‘pet friendly’,” L’raan drolly pointed out as we rode up in a taxi, “so they shouldn’t complain about us.”
Wise ass little vixen.
Dinner was authentic Mexican, delivered to our room by a shocked young Hispanic man. “It smells great!” I said as the driver brought the bags into the room---only to stop in his tracks when he spied the two vixens curled up on a bed. “Sorry for the surprise,” I said, not sorry at all, “but I can assure you that my two Yularian friends won’t bite you---unless you try walking out the door without leaving that wonderful-smelling food!” Poor guy didn’t know how to react, and I briefly felt sorry for messing with his mind. But just briefly.
“I...I---uh,” he sputtered, totally at a loss.
“Here’s sixty dollars,” I said, pressing three twenties into his hand while relieving him of the heavy bags. “That covers the food, the delivery charge and gives you a nice tip.” The young man still couldn’t put a sentence together, and I sighed. “The two Yularians and I are heading to California to do a TV show day after tomorrow. You can tell the folks at the restaurant that you got to see them first!” The vixens yipped, waved like TV star bimbos and I firmly ushered him out the door.
I was hungry, too!
We’d skipped renting separate rooms for the vixens and myself, since I didn’t think it would matter all that much longer, one way or the other. Our nice room had two queen-size beds and an adequate table, and it didn’t take us long to make short work of the delightful meal. A middle-aged writer friend lived nearby, and years earlier he’d turned me on to the local Mexican cuisine. It was as good as I remembered, and while it was too late to call him and chit-chat, I vowed to contact him when all this was over. Good friends were hard to come by, and he and his wife were keepers.
Once dinner was over I ran through the shower while the vixens brushed down their fur in the cool air conditioning---too damned cold!---then we all curled up in one bed and were asleep within minutes. The next morning they made sure there were obvious shed pelt hairs in the other bed---just because.
We’d rolled out after a quick (free!) breakfast in the hotel’s lounge area. The vixens ate mostly protein, and I cautioned them about the greasy sausage patties and links. “You get a bellyache at ten thousand feet, you can’t hang your fuzzy butts out the window!” I got nipped for that remark, and it hurt!
We were in the air by eight a.m. and quickly climbed to cruising altitude. The side of my head hurt like mischief, my left eye was terribly bloodshot and I was stone-deaf in my left ear, but otherwise it looked like a good day to be flying. Hell, I’d always thought any day was a good day to be flying!
But I was oh so wrong.
Every few hours we’d stop at little regional airports to stretch our legs, pee and get drinks, but since we were also crossing time zones and chasing the setting sun, by the time we got near the coast it was still early enough to tackle the small area of Rocky Mountains east of Burbank, then drop gently into the Bob Hope Airport. The TV studio would pick us up with a limo once we’d cleared the usual airport formalities, and they had us already booked into a nice hotel.
Life was good.
About thirty miles east of the mountain pass where our flight plan was routing us the weather suddenly closed in---fast!---and at first I wasn’t too concerned, which was a costly mistake. Then in mere moments it closed so tight, and the temperature dropped so rapidly, I feared the airplane would criti
cally ice up before I could deploy the anti-icing gear. That’s when I got really scared. “Snug your seat belts, ladies,” I commented through our headset intercom and a singular faint click in my head. “The ride’s looking to get a bit bumpy.”
Boy, was that ever an understatement!
I knew that Art Goldman had at least one heavily-armed F-16V jet fighter shadowing us well above this insane weather, loafing along at our one hundred seventy five knot cruising speed. The poor pilot had to be dozing off from sheer boredom before he/she spied the foul weather, which from my satellite information appeared to extended way up above my little plane’s maximum ceiling. Around that time I quit worrying about the jet above us and started worrying about what was happening to my fancy, electronic flight instruments! Everything suddenly went haywire, and even the old-fashioned mechanical “steam gauges” that were meant for last-ditch backup information in the event the electronics had a system failure went bonkers---which mean we were in a world of trouble at well over a mile above an unforgiving ground. My compass was spinning, my altimeter was all over the place, my airspeed indicator showed everything from zero to supersonic and my radio was solid hash on all frequencies. I couldn’t even raise Bertha on our special link.
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