Night of the Living Trekkies (4 page)

Jim looked down at the blade. He could tell from a glance that the edge was dull.

“None of these are sharpened, right?” Jim said.

The Klingon’s demeanor subtly changed.

“You’re with the hotel?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, nothing in the booth has an edge,” he said. “I have a few pieces with live blades, but they’re under lock and key in my room.”

Jim thanked him for his cooperation. One of the biggest dangers in hosting a science-fiction convention was the presence of live blades on the show floor. Most people brought them with no real intention of hurting anyone; they were simply seeking an additional degree of verisimilitude. But when attendance skyrocketed and the aisles were jammed with guests, those sharpened blades became a real liability. All it took was one person pushing and shoving his way through the crowd to get a peek at Patrick Stewart, and the result could be a punctured lung.

“This is an outstanding collection,” Jim said. “Do you make all of these yourself?”

The Klingon smiled, revealing a mouthful of pointy fake teeth. Or at least Jim assumed they were fake.

“I am Martock, expert weapons maker and second in command of the bird of prey Plank’Nar.”

“No, seriously,” Jim said. “Speak English.”

“I own a metal-fabricating shop in Atlanta,” Martock said. “This stuff’s like a sideline for me. A really, really profitable sideline. I do
Lord of the Rings
,
Xena
,
Highlander
, you name it. If you see a movie and like a particular piece of hardware, I can make you a copy.”

Jim took in the weapons on display. There were daggers of various lengths, all with contorted, nasty-looking blades. There were also several large, crescent-shape contraptions with three leather-lined handles on one side and four sword points and a continuous yard-long edge on the other.

“Nice bat’leths,” he said. “Very authentic looking.”

“You’ll find no finer swords of honor anywhere in the empire.”

“Well, I hope you get lots of business. Turnout looks pretty light so far.”

“Sometimes it’s slow on the first day of a con,” Martock said. “And
that
guy’s not helping things, either.”

He pointed at the expo hall’s temporary stage. Martock’s booth was in the last row of the vending area, giving him a direct view of the day’s entertainment. As the two of them watched, a fat man sporting a jet-black pompadour, a one-piece sequined jumpsuit, and sickly grayish-green facial makeup took the stage.

“Oh, crap,” Martock said, unconsciously taking a step back. “He’s going on again.”

Jim grinned. “I thought Klingons didn’t show fear.”

“They’d show it if they had to listen to
this
guy. For the third time today.”

“Ladies and gentlemen and otherwise, please give it up for
Elvis Borgsley
,” someone announced.

“Really?” Jim asked. “They’re serious?”

“He’s supposed to be Elvis Presley, if Elvis had been assimilated into the Borg Collective,” Martock said. “I’d like to assimilate him into the trunk of my car. At least until the end of the con.”

Borgsley headed toward the microphone with stunted, mechanical movements. He launched into an off-key ballad called “Are You Isolated from the Collective Tonight?”

“Why do they keep bringing him out?” Jim said.

“It’s all they have,” Martock replied, visibly pained. “There was supposed to be a Trek metal band called Warp Core Breach, but they’re late.”

“Bummer,” Jim said.

He was about to walk away when he noticed a cot in the back of Martock’s booth. Someone was lying on it, but all he could see was a pair of dirty women’s athletic shoes sticking out from under a blanket.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked, pointing to the cot.

“My business partner, Karen,” Martock explained. “She does custom-tailored uniforms—Klingon, Cardassian, all the generations of Starfleet. Really nice work.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s just hungover. She went out on the town last night. When she finally crawled back this morning, all she said was that she felt like crap and needed to crash. I hate to think how many commissions she’s missing.”

“She might have a bug,” Jim said. “There’s definitely something going around.”

“Or maybe she ate off that nasty buffet over there,” Martock said, pointing to the room’s far corner. “It’s been sitting out all day, with no attendants, no nothing.”

Jim suddenly remembered Rodriguez and the note in his hand.

“I’ll check into it,” he said. “Enjoy Mr. Borgsley.”

Martock offered a halfhearted wave.

Jim walked to the buffet and found a typical breakfast spread of bagels, sausage, eggs, and cartons of milk and juice. But it wasn’t breakfast anymore. Not even close. The drink cartons floated in a tub of lukewarm water that had formerly been ice. The Sterno candle under the warming tray for the sausage had gone out.

Jim glanced around the room for Rodriguez or one of his minions. But there wasn’t a single hotel employee in sight. He took out his walkie-talkie.

“Rodriguez,” he called. “Are you there?”

No response. Jim stalked through a nearby door, into a service area. He found shelves lined with tablecloths, silverware, warming trays, and napkins, all where they should be. Deeper in the storeroom he passed crates of bottled water, soft drinks, and canned goods—just a small portion of the mountain of foodstuffs the Botany Bay kept on hand at all times, tucked away in various kitchens, freezers, and pantries.

But still no staffers.

Jim walked toward an exterior door where the hotel used to take deliveries. It led outside to an accessway—really just a wide alley—bracketed on one side by the hotel, and on the other by an office building.

He pushed open the heavy steel door and was rewarded with a blast of bright Texas sunshine. The humidity was stifling. He immediately started to sweat.

And almost immediately he spotted Rodriguez, leaning against the wall with a soda bottle in his hand.

“What are you doing out here?” Jim said. “You’ve got a breakfast buffet that’s about to go viral.”

“I’ve been running around all day,” Rodriguez countered. “I’m just taking five minutes to catch my breath. And it’d be a lot more relaxing if I wasn’t being spied on.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim said. “Sarah sent me.”

“I don’t mean you. I mean
them
.”

Rodriguez pointed to the far end of the alley, which opened up next to the Botany Bay’s front entrance. A trick of architecture cast it into deep shadow. Jim could make out a couple of dumpsters and little else. But the longer he stared, the more convinced he became that there were people in the gloom. Several, actually. And they were looking at him.

“Who are they?” Jim asked.

“Homeless guys. There’s always a couple down there. Nice shady spot on a hot day. But for some reason they’ve been giving me the eye.”

“All the more reason to go back to work.” Jim handed him the note from Sarah. “She wants you to call this bakery. It’s about some kind of . . .”

“D7 battle cruiser cake,” Rodriguez said, nodding. “I’ll deal with it.”

Jim watched Rodriguez step back inside and then held the door for himself. Before returning to the storage room, he glanced one last time at the end of the alley.

The people in the dark were still watching.

It was odd, but it didn’t really add up to anything. The bites on Dexter and Sarah were strange, too . . . but so what?

Jim stepped back into the hotel and closed the door behind him.

This isn’t Afghanistan
, he thought, repeating his personal mantra.
I’m not responsible for any of the trivial bullshit that happens in this stupid hotel. None of it really matters—and amen to that.

Just then his walkie-talkie chirped for attention. Jim pulled it out and toggled it on.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Your sister just called. “The voice belonged to Oscar, the security guard who manned the control booth in the hotel garage. “She’ll be here in five minutes. Her friends reserved a spot in our secured parking area.”

“Damn it,” Jim said.

“You’re welcome. You coming?”

“Right away. Where do I go?”

“Space K-7.”

“That’s a bus slot.”

“Which suggests they’re arriving in a bus. But you’re welcome to drag your sorry ass down here and see for yourself.”

Jim put away his walkie-talkie. Then, once and for all, he pushed aside any lingering worries about hotel-related problems. He had family to think about. Stuff that really
did
matter.

It was time to go meet Rayna.

The hotel’s parking garage contained seven levels, six above ground and one below. The cavernous underground lot accommodated tour buses, luxury motor coaches, and anything else that needed extra space and extra security. At night, a gigantic metal gate descended over the one and only entrance, locking it up tight.

Jim stood beside K-7, awaiting the arrival of his sister.

A voice crackled over his walkie-talkie.

“Here they come,” said Oscar. “Holy shit. You are not going to believe this.”

“Believe what?” Jim replied.

Almost before he got the question out, his sister’s ride lumbered around the corner. It was an enormous recreational vehicle—the kind that rock stars use while touring and retirees take to Yellowstone. Only Jim had never seen one like this before. It was painted a shiny, metallic bluish silver. Something resembling a satellite dish sprouted from the grill. Along the entire length of the roofline on both sides ran fat metal tubes with flickering red lights at the front.

Jim knew exactly what he was looking at: a very costly, very elaborate, very pathetic attempt to turn the RV into the USS
Enterprise
.

“Houston, we have a freak show,” he muttered dejectedly.

The RV came to a stop with a hiss of air brakes. The side door cracked open, and out jumped Rayna. She closed the ten feet between them in three excited strides and embraced him. He hugged her back, lifting her petite frame off the floor.

“You’ve changed,” she said as she stared up at his face. “You look more serious.”

“You have no idea,” Jim replied. “But you’ve changed, too.”

“Really? How?”

“You’re blue. And you have antennae sprouting out of your head.”

“I’m an Andorian,” Rayna said. “We’re a warlike race from an M-class moon. You can call me by my proper name, Lieutenant Thellina.”

“Already got your geek on, I see.”

“You should be congratulating me,” Rayna said. “I’ve just been promoted to helmsman of the USS
Stockard
.”

“What’s the ‘Stockard’?”

Rayna pointed to the RV.

“I see,” Jim said. “Who gave you this rank?”

The door to the
Stockard
swung open again. Out stepped a tall, thin, twenty-something man wearing a gold jumpsuit with a matching gold jacket. He also had on aviator shades—the big ones that Tom Cruise sported in
Top Gun
.

“Hey, Lieutenant Hottie,” he called. “Where’d you run off to?”

Jim watched as Mr. Ray-Bans put his left arm around his sister’s neck. It wasn’t a hug as much as a mock wrestling hold. For a moment he wondered if he was going to give her a noogie.

“Don’t mess up my antennae,” Rayna pleaded.

Jim felt his neck and shoulders stiffen. He’d only just met this guy, but he’d already disliked him for years.

“Matt, this is my brother, Jim,” Rayna said.

“Matthew Stockard,” he said. “Or rather, for the duration of this soiree,
Commodore
Stockard. Commander of the USS
Stockard
.”

“Matt taught me how to drive this thing,” Rayna chimed in.

“At first I worried she couldn’t handle a big rig,” Matt said. “But she’s a natural. Real enthusiastic.”

It occurred to Jim that he would have no problem putting Commodore Asshole on the garage’s cement floor. He certainly had the means, and Matt just handed him the motive.

Rayna sensed her brother’s mood. “What he means is, I drove most of the way here,” she offered soothingly. “It’s really not that hard.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Jim said. “What do you do for a living, Matt?”

“That’s ‘Commodore.’”

“Whatever. What’s your actual job?”

Rayna frowned. “Jim, during a convention it’s not good form to push people for details about their mundane lives,” she said. “If they want to volunteer information, that’s fine. But—”

“I’m a software developer for Imp Entertainment,” Matt said. “Worked on a couple of games you’ve probably heard of. D’you know
Shopping Maul
?”

As a matter of fact, Jim did. He’d played the game several times. It featured a post-apocalyptic shopping center overrun with mutants. You had to go from store to store, buying things while wiping out the bad guys with a chain gun. It was actually pretty challenging. Shooting people while pushing a shopping cart took some getting used to.

“Sorry, it doesn’t ring a bell,” Jim lied.

A look of disappointment flashed across Matt’s face.

“Your loss,” he said. “It was only last year’s hottest first-person shooter game.”

Matt turned his hands into finger guns and pointed them at Jim’s chest.

“Ka-pow!” he said. “Ka-pow! Ka-pow!”

Then he raised the finger guns to his mouth, blew away imaginary smoke, and pretended to holster them.

Jim tried to think of something to say. He was saved from the attempt when another one of Matt’s passengers descended from the RV. She was Rayna’s age and sported a bobbed black haircut and clunky rectangular glasses. Her uniform consisted of a halter top and miniskirt, plus pointed prosthetic ears and a dagger holstered on her right hip.

“Jim, this is my friend T’Poc,” Rayna said. “T’Poc, Jim.”

“Hey,” T’Poc offered.

Jim heyed her back.

“T’Poc is a Vulcan officer from the ISS
Enterprise
, which exists in a mirror universe ruled by the barbaric Terran Empire,” Rayna said. “You know, the inside-out dimension where all the good guys are bad guys and Spock has a goatee.”