AbductiCon (4 page)

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 if 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.

“You want someone to keep an eye on me?” Al said, quite lucidly. “Well, all my friends are there right now. At the convention. Where I was supposed to be – with the posters. What time is it?”

The doctor consulted his watch. “Almost seven thirty.”

“Call me a cab,” Al said. “I’ll go there and I’ll…”

“To a convention?” The doctor looked skeptically at the arm cradled in a sling and a collection of small cuts and darkening bruises elsewhere on the patient’s body. “I really think you’re in no shape to – ”

“Just do it,” Al said. “And please find me my stuff.”

The doctor’s brows drew together at that distinctly less–than–deferential tone, and then he shrugged. “As you wish. You’re leaving on your own recognizance, though, and against medical advice and I’ll put that on the record. I’ll send someone to help you dress – your clothes are over there on the table, in the bag, some of them are a little messed up but I guess we can’t help that. I’ll send a small bottle of Vicodin home with you, and it would really be good if you could look in on a doctor at some point during the next 48 hours or so. Just to make sure.”

“Fine,” Al muttered.

All of him hurt, as though he had been worked over by a professional boxer. His chest felt vaguely caved in, and he seemed to be having difficulty with the simple act of inhaling a lungful of air –but nothing major seemed to be broken, other than the damaged arm, and he could cope with the rest of it. Because movement was limited with one arm in a sling and because every small movement made him wince it took some little while before he could, with assistance, struggle halfway into a set of clothes which were not happy with the sling situation; another forty minutes or more passed before he walked, staggering a little, to a waiting cab and gave directions to the California Resort.

It was now past eight o’clock, and full dark, and it was later still by the time the cab pulled up and woke its passenger, dozing fitfully in the back seat. Al blinked several times and sat up, wincing as he jarred the strapped arm.