Shirl Henke - Sneak And Rescue

Looking at some of the middle-aged bodies and listening to educated accents, she was inclined to believe it must be true, but the costumes! Reemulans with pointed ears and superior scowls mingled with turtle-foreheaded Klingoffs carrying katliffs—dangerous curved blades with points on both ends. The damned things were big enough to slice and dice a mastodon.

One enormous lizardlike creature covered with glistening scales shambled along the aisles like a malevolent Barney, only green instead of purple. But the scariest of all were the junkyard rejects decked out with wires and pieces of glass protruding from bodies encased in metallic suits. She glanced around and found a relatively normal-looking kid dressed in an Eastley Masher Spacefleet ensign’s uniform. He was selling Klingoff “blood milk” steins. “What are those guys?” she whispered.

He looked at her as if she’d asked what year it was, but then again, most of these people probably thought it was the twenty-third century, so who gave a flip? “Cybs. You know, Cyber organisms,” he enunciated slowly. At her still-puzzled expression, he elaborated, “They’re part human but integrated into the Cyber Collective. Enhanced cognitive abilities and superior strength.”

Yeah. Pretty hard to tell who was on or off his meds in a joint like this. Granger, I can’t believe you were ever this much of a geek. And to think he didn’t understand baseball. Or car engines!

“I am one of the Folean Web. Would you care to link with me?” a short, stocky guy dressed like an oversize Pillsbury Doughboy asked, ogling her breasts.

“How’d you like me to tie your link in a big fat knot?” she muttered, shoving past him. At least a guy making a pass was normal behavior, even if he did it sci-fi style. Then again, maybe he hadn’t asked what she thought he had. Who knew? These people were all nuts. Made Halloween on Lincoln Avenue in Miami Beach seem like a Republican convention.

She scanned the program issued at the entrance and tried to figure out where Farley Winchester might be. If he wore his Confederation uniform, he’d be a cinch to ID, but she’d have to walk her feet flat to locate him. The best course was to access registration information.

“Frobisher, help me, buddy.” He could hack the info in seconds. She dialed her cell, leaving a message on his machine, explaining what she needed. Fro had had a crush on her since they attended St. Stanislaus in sixth grade. If he didn’t come through, she’d have to wander the aisles of this menagerie for the next three days—maybe get carved up by a katliff or eaten by a Borne.

On that gloomy note, she doggedly set out again, cruising the next aisle where a white furry creature sporting long tentacles on his-its head conferred with a pair of pointy-eared Vulcants. Matt had explained the difference between Vulcants and Reemulans. She felt proud of herself for remembering.

Emboldened by her crash course, she smiled at the Vulcant and said conversationally, “Nice makeup job.”

He stiffened and raised one eyebrow, inspecting her with disdain. “This is not ‘makeup,’ madam. The plastic surgeon charged me two thousand apiece to reshape my ears and a thousand for the rebrow work. I can assure you I am a true Vulcant,” he said in a cultivated voice.

Sam nodded. “Whatever you say, mister.” Oops, did one call Vulcants mister?

She scooted off fast, melting into the crowd but still feeling the Vulcant’s icy stare following her. I thought only Dobermans and boxers got their ears docked! She wondered if the surgeon had shortened a tail on the guy while he was busy cutting. This scenario was starting to get to her, but a job was a job. She had to find Farley and get him out of here before someone grafted a tentacle to him—or worse.

“The only thing I can figure is that they registered under assumed names.” Ethan Frobisher’s voice came over the line sounding distinctly frustrated. He didn’t like coming up empty when he hacked. “No one named Farley Winchester or Elvis Scruggs is registered for the con.”

Sam tapped her toe on the cement floor, trying to think while a kaleidoscope of creatures paraded by. Some sort of laser show complete with fake explosions vibrated through the huge center. She held her free hand over her opposite ear and spoke into her cell. “Is there an official convention hotel? From what I could see, there are a dozen places around here.”

“That’s an easy one. The Holiday Inn Select and the Renaissance St. Louis Suites are both listed,” Fro replied, almost panting his pleasure at being able to supply an answer.

If Sam had read the program closely, she could’ve found this out for herself, but she had to throw him a bone. “Say, Fro…you aren’t…naw, never mind.”

“A Spacer?” he replied, figuring that was her question. “Yes, I really dig the shows, especially the original episodes. The science is weak, of course. Worf drive could never work that way, but the philosophical issues they explore—”

“Uh, I know, Fro. Matt agrees with you.” The minute she said it, Sam could’ve bitten her tongue. She knew how jealous of her husband Ethan Frobisher had become. She didn’t need to rub salt.

But he surprised her. “Way cool! I’m happy for you, Samantha. Sounds as if you found an intelligent guy after all.”

On some issues. But she wasn’t about to discuss her and Matt’s divergence of opinion about Space Quest or her quest for Aunt Claudia’s money. She thanked him and signed off, then checked her program guide. The Holiday Inn was closer to the America’s Center, but the Renaissance offered more luxurious accommodations. Farley and Elvis would go for the high end.

Loudspeakers were blaring that the con was closing for the night and lights were blinking the ten-minute warning. The crowd had thinned. Sam watched the swarms of what she’d loosely term humanity filing out of the big convention center. Other than the Confederation’s Earth officers, no one was even vaguely recognizable, thanks to latex masks, complexions dyed every hue from maroon to bright green, padded costumes, even additional appendages in some cases.

“And let’s not forget the ones with antennae or wires,” she muttered. How the hell was she going to find Farley in the middle of the madness? She only had two more days.

Then an idea hit her. The lure of a big payday always brought out a real creative streak. Sam walked into the warm evening air and headed to the parking lot to retrieve her van before that pit-stop pirate charged her for another day. By the time she reached the Econoline, the place was so deserted she could have heard a pin drop.

But what she heard instead was the sound of footsteps dashing up behind her.

Chapter 6

She’d had to leave her .38 and the stun gun in the van because of metal detectors at the America’s Center. Damn! Sam whirled around, crouching, prepared to use fists and feet to do some serious hurt to her attackers. At the last second she pulled her punch. They were midgets, under four feet tall, and looked like oversize balls of brown cotton candy.

“Sam, don’t you recognize us?” the taller of the two piped up as the smaller one behind her started jumping up and down, clapping her hands and asking, “What are you doing here?”

Then Sam saw an adult figure puffing to catch up to them…as usual. “Jenny?” she asked incredulously, recognizing the voices of Jenny Baxter’s two daughters, Tiffany and Melanie. A plump woman dressed in one of those uncomfortable spandex suits complete with high jackboots and a fake weapon strapped to her waist, nodded.

“Hi, Sam,” she said, tugging on the inseam of the unflattering pants as she drew near.

Sam looked down at the taller kid swathed in what she could now see was brown fur. “Tiff?” Then turned to the littler one. “Mellie? What are you?”