They couldn’t plant their own cameras in the public areas because the hotel objected to this, and they weren’t allowed access to the hotel’s own security feeds — but in any case nothing interesting was happening yet in the field of view of the only one they had up front, showing an awkward angle of the reg table but not the rest of the foyer.
“Any word from the airport?” Andie Mae called out into the tangle of computer cables and blinking screens and chattering printers.
“Dave called, he said as best he can tell the flight’s been delayed,” Libby Broadbent, communications maven, lifted her hands from the keyboard for a moment, looking up. “He said he’ll keep us posted. Uh, I’ve had another dozen emails from people who are confused about the hotel…”
Andie Mae tried not to roll her eyes. “Really, anyone would think I changed the venue to upset people,” she said. “This is a better hotel for us — we’ve outgrown the old place, had outgrown it five years ago, if only Sam didn’t have this sentimental attachment to that horrid fugly carpet they had in the foyer or something. Just tell them to get their asses over here, and promise them bigger and better!”
“Did,” Libby said. “At least one of them emailed back sounding less than convinced. How many do you figure will actually turn up this year?”
“All of them,” Andie Mae said, through gritted teeth. If they knew what was good for them. I run JUST as good a con as Sam ever did. Better. I am the best new thing in town.
“Well, the gamers will,” Libby said philosophically. “As long as they program the GPS to bring them to the correct address it won’t matter to them one way or another if they’re stuck inside some mirrored ballroom at the old Marriott or here at the California Resort. It’s all the same room, really. Have you ever wondered if the gamers actually do live in an alternate reality and only the room moves, but they simply stay in it…?”
“Anything’s possible,” Andie Mae said acidly. She was just a touch sensitive to the gamer comments, having spent at least a year of her own life buried in just such a mirrored ballroom playing the games that had been the foundation of her existence. That was before she had discovered that real — life games could be far more amusing than the fantasy role — playing. Like running cons, for instance.
Like running this con. Specifically. Finally, her chance to shine at the thing she wanted so very badly to be good at.
There were definitely enough moments of the hard reality of it all, however, that she caught herself wishing that the whole thing had been a game interface. She knew how to toggle those to suit her purposes, when it mattered. Reality meant she had to deal with other people, and those were usually variables she could not predict accurately enough to produce a flawless result.
It was the little things that kept on tripping her up. Little things like her hotel liaison stuck at the airport waiting for her writer Guest of Honor, Vincent J. Silverman, hurriedly recruited at more or less the last moment when the original writer GoH, a big — name author who was supposed to be her drawcard, had decided to cancel on her. At least Vincent J. Silverman wrote stuff that was remotely related to the con’s theme, which was a blessing. Andie Mae had dispatched David Lorne, her hotel and guest liaison, to meet Silverman’s flight, but he hadn’t been on it, and then emailed that he would be taking a later flight. Now Dave had been cooling his heels at the airport for the better part of the morning — and she had better things for him to do than hang around at the arrivals gate all day. She was starting to get just a titch annoyed at her author guest.
She tapped at her left ear, the one with the earpiece via which the committee stayed in touch with each other — no old — fashioned hand — held radios for her and her crew, not like Sam’s antiques — and scowled again. She wished people would just check in so that she knew where everyone was and what they were doing.
“Everything under control downstairs?” she asked, leaning over Libby’s shoulder and peering at the registration table camera feed. The screen showed a grainy image of one lanky — haired young man handing over a sheaf of crumpled bills, with a hint of someone else waiting patiently in line just behind.
“So far so good,” Libby said. “It’s just Felicity down there for the moment, though — maybe we could send a couple of more volunteers down to man the desk in about an hour, but we seem to be in a lull and everything is pretty quiet, she says she can cope with things right now.”
“Any update on…”
“She says there have been thirty more registrations in the past hour,” Libby said, preempting the question. “But they said their friends would be coming, apparently. After work. Give them a few more hours.”
Andie Mae drummed her fingers on the back of Libby’s chair. The posters needed to be up by then, dammit. The posters with their star turn attractions. The posters, which might have moved more registrations. The posters that were still at the printer’s with Al.
“I wish I could clone myself,” Andie Mae muttered under her breath. It was necessary for her to oversee everything, or else nothing would turn out right — but being everywhere at once was proving to be rather wearying on a body. She found herself wishing that Al was back, already — and not for the reasons that were foremost in her mind just a moment before. She desperately wanted a cup of good coffee.
“You sure this is the right place?” Angel Silverman said doubtfully as the yellow cab pulled up under the shimmering canopy of the fake — mother — of — pearl portico arching above the entrance to the California Resort.
“That’s the address,” Vince Silverman said, fishing in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, keep the change,” he said to the driver, handing over a fifty — dollar bill.
The driver took the money with a delicate two — fingered grip. “Much obliged,” he said. “Let me get your bags.”
Angel had already got out of the car, and had taken the few steps off to her right where the driveway ended at a sturdy stainless steel fence wreathed with flowering creeper. “At least it has a nice view,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Maybe we rate a room with one,” Vince said. “Come on, let’s get checked in and then you can go exploring.”
“There’s a pool,” Angel said, pointing.
“Swell,” Vince muttered. “Later, Angel. Come on.”
Angel left her vantage point with reluctance, and shouldered one of the smaller bags piled by the entrance. “OK, hon,” she said. “Right behind you.”
“I suppose I’d better find someone from the committee first,” Vince said, tackling the revolving doors with the finesse of someone who was no stranger to handling such things with a double armful of luggage.
An expressionless man with too — perfect silvery — white skin just a little too tightly stretched over the bones of his face watched them enter, standing without moving only a few steps away as the Silvermans fell into the foyer with their baggage. Vince looked up, rearranging his grip on his rolling carry — on, and gave the other man a once — over. Con goer, definitely; one learned to recognize them on sight, after enough conventions. Just enough of a too — weird vibe to be a mundane.