Spencer Luster: November 2016

Monday, November 7, 2016

World Fantasy Convention 2016, Uber Corgi, and Serendipity

This is a partial report on my doings at WFC in Columbus. I only attended Friday and part of Saturday this year. My original intent had been for longer. Unbeknownst to me, however, cosmic forces far beyond the understanding of mere mortals intervened. My dear Chicago Cubs made it to the World Series! That forced an adjustment to my shedule, as the Brits say.

I had a nice time driving down from Toledo to Columbus with Marc Tassin. This was the longest conversation we ever had, and we both learned things about the other and laughed a bit. I caught up briefly with Beth Vaughan, who’d already been in Columbus for a couple of days. She’s writing her fingers to nubbins working on SOMETHING NEW.

Friday night I hung out at the bar. With my daughter Jamie. We watched the Cubs and Indians play game three. We had dinner elsewhere, and then settled in to watch baseball. Jamie doesn’t really care for baseball. She doesn’t drink alcohol, except for an occasional glass of wine. The evening’s result? It was great! I couldn’t have had a better time or company.

Saturday was kind of the usual con stuff, although World Fantasy is really more of a pro convention than many others. I met Maurice Broaddus, who has been a nice addition to Marc’s GenCon Writers’ Symposia. I got knocked out in the art room by a painting titled The Sanguinary Innocent by Jarrod Erik. I was tempted to make an offer, although with a minimum bid of $1,400.00 I would have been persona non grata upon arriving back home.

“But just look at this. What stark beauty. What power.”

“What the in the ever loving HELL were you thinking?”

What I DID buy turned out to be even better, and all it cost was $15.00. While perusing the dealer room, I noticed a cheerful fellow behind a table hawking his new collection of short stories with some illustrations. As part of his pitch he offered to do a custom pen and ink drawing of any beast you could name.

“Any beast?” sez me.

“Any beast. What do you have in mind?”sez cheerful writer/artist.

“Well, years ago my son came up with the concept of Der Uber Corgi. It’s a big Corgi wearing a World War I spiked German helmet.” (The helmet is called a pickelhaube, btw, and Der Uber Corgi’s nemesis is The Iron Ostrich. But that’s a story for another day.)

“Heh. Sounds cute. Big Corgi.”

“I mean BIG, like Godzilla-sized, laying waste to the city.”

So, I pay my $15.00 for his book, and then wander the room awhile as he works. (I never liked people looking over my shoulder when I was building cabinets.)

I do hear him giggle a couple of times. When I return, he’s finished the piece, and he seems very pleased. He tells me it was a lot of fun. I take a look, and I’m seriously stunned. It’s not what I was expecting, because it’s pretty much exactly what I was hoping for, only even more so. I find it hard to tell him how pleased I am, and I know my son Alex will love it.

The writer/artist is a fellow named Jerome Stueart. (Yes, that’s the correct spelling.) His book is titled The Angels of Our Better Beasts. And his stories are TERRIFIC! I won’t go into any review here, but I can say that if his drawing was the cake, his stories are the best butter crème coconut frosting I can imagine. Alex loves coconut frosting.

I almost didn’t go to World Fantasy this year at all because of the Cubbies. Alex and I had watched every game of their playoff run together, and the World Series, of course, is the epitome. How could I miss one of those games with him? Now I’m so glad I did. Even with no other consideration, spending the evening with Jamie, and then discovering Jerome Stueart and bringing Uber Corgi home was so, so worth it!

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(excerpt from chapter three)

"What I'm looking for," Jason said, bouncing back on his feet, "is a package of fusion grade boron 11 from Earth. Seen anything like that?"

Maggie looked up at the ceiling and scratched her cheek. "Boron? That's one of those "element" things, isn't it? And you say it's used in fusion, eh?"

"Maggs!"

The black woman chuckled and hooked her thumb backwards. "Check the crate next to the lathe. I ordered the squid to unload it at highest priority and drop it here. The rest goes to Computer Science."

Jason jumped up and almost banged his skull on the low ceiling. When he landed, he leaned over and hugged Maggie. "You're the best!"

"Tell me something I don't know," she said. "Not that it does me any good."

She said something else, but Jason had already changed focus to the blue crate. One unfastened lid and one layer of packing foam later and the silvery cylinder full of boron 11 was in his hands. Combine the contents with some plain old hydrogen in the fusion reactor of Argo, and billions of joules of energy were his to command. Black space would belong to him again!

Jason put the cylinder down to replace the lid of the crate. He dropped it in place and was about to reseal it when his hands stopped.

Had that been a box from Quellan's under the fusion fuel?

He popped the lid off again.

Sure enough, that deep red label with the spiral galaxy pattern was unmistakable.

Mom worked for Quellan's.

He hesitated before picking up the box. The last time she'd sent anything to the station had been half a year ago, a week late for Jason's fourteenth birthday. The Whirl-O-Ball had been something he'd begged for—back when he was five years old. She had included a note, and it was a whole sixteen words long.

Still, if this was from Mom at least it showed she was thinking about him. Correction, at least it showed she had thought about him, however long ago she'd ordered whatever this was.

"Hey Maggs, you said this crate is for the Computer Center or specifically for Dad?"

She slid out from under the small spacecraft, welder still in hand. "What's the transfer label say on the side?"

Jason looked. Dr. Anson Blackstone. Personal. "It's for Dad."

"You thinking of hauling that to your father yourself? A squid would be easier."

"No," Jason said. "I was just curious."

A grunt was Maggie's reply.

Jason stared at the Quellans box. Maybe Dad had simply ordered something for himself. Or if it was from Mom, that didn't mean it was for her son who she hadn't bothered to see in three years. And even if Mom had sent it, and even if it was for him, it was probably dumb and thoughtless and she'd had someone else pick it out.

His curiosity beat out his bitterness. Curiosity and hope.

The box wasn't much bigger than his hand, but it had surprising mass, maybe a whole kilogram. The ribbon around it was real, shiny fabric, not one of those printed things. He untied it. The box top slid off easily.

Jason stared at the gold rectangle that had alternating violet and black stripes. He only recognized it because of who Dad was. The thing was a "Delphic Oracle", the core of a computer that some people said could have almost infinite, instantly accessible memory. Not even the FAs had that kind of tech. This wasn't for him. Definitely for Dr. Anson Blackstone, Chief Computer Scientist.

It was a dream that Dad had talked about, a theoretical device the cyber ginks played with based on speculation about four or more dimensional space. Except this was the real thing!

No. It couldn't be real. Dad was one of the people who'd proved that it couldn't work. The big chip was probably one of those mock ups for some fancy presentation. But it sure was a beautiful model. Jason twisted the latch of the clear plastic cover. He just wanted to feel it, and then put it back.

His finger touched the surface, right on one of the violet stripes. It was cold, very cold. He hadn't expected that. The black stripes were the same.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to take it out, just peek at the other side. He started to lift the chip, but then thought about how delicate the leads of real chips were—one wrong scrape and you've turned a very expensive piece of technology into a ballast rock. Even if it was a model he didn't want to take the chance. Dad would show him later. Jason eased the chip back and closed the cover. He returned the plastic case to the box.

Then he felt the pain at his fingertip.

At first he thought he'd poked it on something sharp in the box, but he couldn't see anything. Then the pain flared up and it felt more like a burn. "Ow! Crap."

He looked at his finger. Nothing there. He rubbed it with his thumb.

"What'd you do, Darlin'?" Maggie asked from under the ship she was working on.

"I don't know, but it sure—Oh, Jeez!" The pain exploded now, a dozen times worse. The burning felt like it could have been from a rocket exhaust. He almost put his finger in his mouth, but pain started at his thumb now too and something made him stop.

He looked again.

Now he could see a change in the skin of his finger. It was rippling in little waves, almost as if it was…boiling. The skin puckered and bubbled until tiny drops of blood seeped out, but they quickly boiled into red foam. Smoke came off as the foam evaporated, and the puckering continued up his finger and along this thumb and God oh God oh God did it hurt! "Maggie! Maggie! Something's burning me up!"

Jason twitched wildly and banged into the crate. He wasn't thinking, just trying to get away from the agony. Smoke now billowed from his hand and it stunk and—

"Jason! Let me see it!" Maggie grabbed his wrist hard with both hands. She still wore her welding gloves.

His eyes were closed tight against the pain, but he forced himself to open them and look. Through the smoke he could see that his finger and most of his thumb were…gone. How could they be gone? The skin of his whole hand boiled, ready to vaporize next. He screamed, "What's happening?"

Maggie shouted, "You're not burning! You're being disassembled by nanoids!"