Queen of wands

CHAPTER ONE

Doris shook her head and looked around the room. For a moment it was like she’d just woken up from a nightmare. There had been pain, so much pain. Then she was here. Wherever “here” was.

It was a large room with medium-height ceilings, brightly lit. It clearly was in a big structure, maybe a hotel. There were various exits and signs, none of which were really penetrating right away. People were entering from a door behind her and going past her in twos and threes, most of them talking excitedly. From somewhere in the room a song was booming an electronic beat.

Today is your birthday

But it might be the last day of your life

What will you do if tomorrow it’s all gone?

You won’t be young forever

It’s only a fraction to the sum

You won’t be young forever

Nor will anyone

She had to think. It was like her brain was filled with cotton wool. She was…

She had a plastic bag in one hand and a backpack over her shoulder. Looking at the bag, it said “Dragon*Con” on the front, with some sort of a symbol. It had…some books and papers in it. There was a sign across the room Hyatt Hotels Welcomes Dragon*Con!”

So…Sure, she was at Dragon*Con. Of course. Bob had told her she could find “people like her” there. People who didn’t think she was weird or ugly or strange.

Come to think of it, some of the people did look sort of strange. The music-she could finally find its source-was coming from over by some tables halfway down the room. The people gathered around them, setting up some sort of booth, certainly fit the bill of “strange.” Uber-Goths with bright-colored hair and black clothes. The girls’ hair was mostly an almost-fluorescent red that bordered on purple, while most of the guys had black. One of the guys had a skater cut with dreadlocks, black eyeliner and a weird, slumped look. Strange. Stranger than her. Not…her sort. Not that there was her sort anywhere.

“Miss, people are trying to walk here,” a heavy-set man said as he dodged around her. He wasn’t impolite about it, just sort of informative.

“Sorry, sorry…” she answered and moved to the side. He’d almost bumped her.

She hugged the wall and looked around. There was a sign that said “Women” down the same wall about halfway across the room. She stayed by the wall and carefully crept into the ladies’, trying not to be noticed.

She finally found the refuge of a stall, slid the bolt and sat on the toilet, trying not to panic. There were just too many people, too much chaos even though the large room had had barely thirty people in it. It was just like school. People meant bullies, boys and girls. The cheerleaders and the football players. The Names and the In-Crowd. The people that made sure she Knew Her Place every single day. And her place was right square at the bottom.

Doris…She knew that much. And Bob had said to go to Dragon*Con. That there were people “like her” there. But most of the rest of it was a blur.

Okay, take stock. She was apparently at Dragon*Con. That was in Atlanta. She had a badge pinned to her shirt. It said “Doris Grisham.”

That was better. Okay, sure. Doris Grisham. She’d grown up in Mt. Union, Alabama. Her dad was a lumber cutter, worked for Weyerhaeuser ’til he got hurt, then mostly just sat in the trailer and drank. Which was what momma did all the time.

She’d gone to Hill Crest High. She knew that much. She’d learned her place fer sure in Hill Crest. The only place she was safe was the library. She’d lived in the library as much as she could.

Nearsighted, too ugly to get a date, too dumb to pass a class. That was Dumb-ass Doris. She was a total loser. A nobody. She Knew Her Place. It was to marry some redneck as dumb-ass as her and push out another passel of useless kids that’d cut wood ’til they got hurt and lived the rest of their life on assistance.

But that was then. Whenever then was. Who was she now? And why couldn’t she remember, when Hill Crest was clear as day?

She opened up the backpack and rummaged through it. Some cheap T-shirts, mostly thin as paper from much washing. Granny underwear that wasn’t much better. The baggy jeans she was wearing had holes, and they weren’t stylish holes at all. Worn running shoes in “guy” colors. A T-shirt three times too large for her. Most of the ones in the bag were XXXL, for that matter.

There was a toothbrush in the bag, and a tube of lipstick. Rolling it out, Doris knew instinctively it would make her look like she had some sort of lip disease. It was completely the wrong color. So was the dusty, dry, and unused-looking pack of cheap eyeliner. Contacts. Contact solution.

All the way at the bottom of the bag was the one thing that wasn’t totally generic. It was a brooch or a barrette, it could probably be used for either. Made of steel, it had a figure carved out in relief of a woman in armor driving a chariot drawn by cats. It was remarkably intricate work. Doris suspected if she had a magnifying glass, she could pick out the details of the woman’s face. But it really didn’t tell her much about who she was or why she was sitting in the stall, so she carefully put it away.

She checked the pockets of the jeans. A crumpled twenty and a couple of ones in her front pocket. In the back pocket, though, was a driver’s license! Hallelujah!

Doris Grisham. Female. Check.

Birthday: 9/3/1984. Okay. So it really was just about her birthday.

5'9" tall. ’Bout right.

110 lbs. Huh. Liar.

Eyes: Green. Have to check a mirror.

Hair: Red. Yep.

Address: 200 River Road, Chattanooga, TN 37405.

Okay. That was something. She now knew she lived in Chattanooga, TN, although it really didn’t ring a bell at all.

“Okay,” she said, definitely. “I’m Doris Grisham. I’m from Chattanooga. I’m at Dragon*Con. I’m here to find people like me or something. How the hell, though, do I get home?”

“Honey, if you’re practicing a secret identity, you might want to keep it down,” said a voice in the stall next to her. “And if you’re talking to your voices, take it from me, it’s a bad idea. That way they’ll never shut up.”

“Sorry,” Doris said meekly, as there was a flushing sound from the next stall.

“So which one was it?” asked the voice as the door to the next stall opened. “And if you’re not gonna use the john you might as well come out. I don’t bite. Mostly.”

Doris cracked the stall door and looked out.

A short, darkly tanned woman was leaning up against the sinks. She was wearing a bolero jacket, a black button-down shirt, jeans, black cowboy boots and a fedora. She probably would have been pretty, if not beautiful, if a teenage case of acne hadn’t left scars to shame a smallpox survivor. But button-black eyes glittering with humor somehow drew the eye away from the skin.

“I’m Mandy,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “You’re Doris. Or at least that’s your secret identity.”

“No, I really am,” Doris said, desperately holding out her license. “I’ve got ID. I’m from…I live in Chattanooga.”

“So you were just grounding,” Mandy said, handing the license back unlooked at and taking Doris’s unresisting hand to shake it. “I get it. Been there, done that, burnt the shirt. Sometimes you just got to make sure it’s you talking and not the chorus. Let me tell you, Aripiprazole helps. You wouldn’t want to know me if I hadn’t gotten on the prescription drug wagon.”

“Okay,” Doris said, eyes wide.

“Not that I’m on aripiprazole,” Mandy continued, turning around to wash her hands. “I finally convinced the county shrink that I was ADHD with PTSD, and not bipolar, which is what it looks like. Been a wonderful world lately being almost normal. I can enjoy a con and not drive everybody around me nuts. Con virgin?”

“Huh?” Doris asked, confused by the rapid changes in subject.

“Is this your first convention?” Mandy said slowly. It was clear that she wasn’t doing it to make Doris sound stupid, just slowing her own patter down for the benefit of the listener.

“Uh…yes,” Doris said, almost certainly.

“So who’s your con-buddy?”

“Uh…?”

Doris sighed.

“Con virgin and no con-buddy? And twenty-something hot female? Honey, you could get away with that at some place like Liberty or ConStellation, but Dragon’s a bit much. Let me guess. You heard about it from somebody and just drove down.”

“Something like that,” Doris said. Did she have a car?

“I’ve got a fair share of human charity, but,” Mandy said. “The but being that I’m here to enjoy myself, I’m already riding herd on Traxa, and there are places you’re not going to want to go that I’m headed. Not from the look of you. But if you got some decent clothes and makeup, I’d say you’d not only fit in, nobody would look at me, so you’re definitely not going.”

“Okay,” Doris said, ducking her head.

“But that’s later, and Traxa is trying to find the dealers, so I’ll take you under my wing for a bit. Come on.”

Doris obediently followed the woman out of the bathroom and back into the large room.

“Registration, which you just went through,” Mandy said, waving to the left. “They moved all the band stalls down here since it was getting crowded upstairs. That’s the Cruxshadows booth.”

“Crue-shadows?” Doris said. “The Shadow of the Cross?”

“Got it in one, not bad,” Mandy said. “Not a Christian myself, but doesn’t mean I don’t like the music.”

“I like what’s playing,” Doris said, timidly.

“Their single, “Birthday.” Kind of repetitive, but it’s got some interesting lyrics.”

“ Then tell me what really matters. Is it the money and the fame? Or how many people might eventually know your name? But maybe you touch one life, and the world becomes a better place to be. Maybe you give their dreams another day, another chance to be free,” Doris whispered along with the song.

“Rogue kind of strikes at the heart of things,” Mandy said as they passed the booth with the Goths still setting up. “Like, you are what you do. Now, me? I’ve got enough on my plate just trying to keep my shit together. Most I can do is maybe help a con virgin get her feet on the ground.”

“Thank you,” Doris said quietly as she sidled to the side to avoid being bumped again. There were a bunch of people around the escalator, and she parked in a corner by the booth, waiting for a hole to open.

“Hey, Doris,” Mandy said, waving. “I’ve been there, like I said. But you’re not going to get beat up for getting on the escalator. And if you think you can wait until it’s clear, well, it will be for about twenty minutes at five AM. And you’re gonna be pretty hungry and thirsty by then.”

Doris still waited until there was a little gap, then darted onto the escalator. She was nearly touching a very heavyset guy wearing an Avenged Sevenfold T-shirt. His look automatically made her think of bikers, and that triggered something unhappy. But she managed to avoid being noticed and got off the escalator at the next floor.

It was much the same as the lower level but there was natural light coming in from somewhere behind the escalator, and a restaurant, currently closed, on the left wall. She realized she was in traffic and looked for a corner to get into.

“Come on, one more level,” Mandy said, taking her arm. “That’s the back patio where most of the smokers, and the smokers’ friends, and about half the con, it seems, on Saturday night, hangs out. But since there’s still not many people, we’re going up to the cigar terrace.”

“Not many people?” Doris squeaked. It was too crowded for her already.

“Honey, on Friday, Saturday and Sunday night it’s going to be more crowded than a club,” Mandy said, maneuvering her onto the next escalator by the simple expedient of hip-checking a skinny guy with a T-shirt that said All I Ever Needed To Learn I Learned From D amp;D out of the way. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” the kid said. “Hey, can I take your picture?”

“Maybe when we get to the top, if security doesn’t stop us,” Mandy said. “And no taking pictures of my butt on the escalator.”

The escalator debouched into an enormous lobby. The building from there up was entirely open-plan with a bank of glass elevators on the south side and multi-story windows on the east. In the middle was a modern-art sculpture that stretched all the way to the roof, and thinking about it, Doris realized it went down into the basement area where she’d met Mandy. People in a variety of dress, from normal streetwear to costumes, were wandering around the lobby, many of them greeting each other.

At the top of the escalator, Mandy got out of the way of the traffic and struck a pose.

“Go for it.”

The guy fumbled with a digital camera for a second, then snapped a photo.

“Would it be okay if I…took one of your friend?”

“Uh…” Doris said nervously.

“You can do it,” Mandy said, firmly. “Stand here, do the same thing I did.”

Doris stood up straight, got a frozen rictus of a grin on her face and tried not to panic as the kid took her picture.

“Thanks,” the gamer said, grinning happily. “Thanks.”

“Why did he just take our picture?” Doris whispered as they walked towards a bar.

“That’s what guys do at Dragon*Con,” Mandy said. “Well, and game and party and drink and go to panels hungover and talk and…Well, that’s what guys do at Dragon*Con, take pictures of costumes and pretty girls and especially pretty girls in costumes. The one with the most pictures of hot babes wins.”

“So why did he take my picture?” Doris asked.

“The one with the most pictures of hot babes wins,” Mandy repeated. “I’m just wondering why he took mine. Probably so I’d talk you into getting yours taken, come to think of it.”

“Oh,” Doris said, still puzzled. “What do girls do at Dragon*Con?”

“Oh, all the other stuff,” Mandy said as they got near the bar. “And see how many guys take their pictures. The one that gets the most pictures taken of her wins.”

The bar was separated from the lobby only by a two-story wall and was already starting to fill up. Doris stopped in shock as a Wookiee came around a table and, with the help of a friend in street clothes, slowly negotiated his way onto the main lobby floor.

At the bar was a stormtrooper, his helmet sitting on the bartop, drinking a Guinness and talking with a guy in Jedi robes while a rather heavyset woman in a Princess Leia slave-girl outfit listened in. Two of Monty Python’s knights were sharing a beer at a table, Bedevere constantly having to lift his face-shield to take a sip.

A slightly overweight and -age Fantastic Four were at another table, Mister Fantastic fumbling with a floppy arm, trying to pick up a drink while the other three ignored him. Wolverine, on the other hand, was pointing a claw and laughing from not far away.

There were at least five times as many people in street clothes as the costumes, but it was definitely the costumes that stood out.

“Fun, huh?” Mandy asked. “Seen enough? We’re going that way,” she added, pointing to the glass back wall.

Glass doors led to a twenty-by-twenty partially covered patio where a couple of groups were already gathering to smoke. One was parked in a corner by the door and had not only seized most of the tables but all the chairs.

The members were mostly in their thirties or forties and seemed to be centered around a man wearing a pair of shorts and a fishing shirt.

“Mandy hath arriv’ed,” the man said. “And she brings new blood. Quite pulchritudinous blood, I might add.”

“Be nice, Folsom,” Mandy said. “She’s a con virgin. Her name’s Doris. She’s from Chattanooga.”

“Ah, the Mountain City. Almost lived there once,” Folsom said, his brow furrowing.

“Almost lived there?”

Doris wondered for a second who had asked the question and then realized it was her.

“Yes,” Folsom said. “Almost moved there. Not sure quite why I didn’t, but water over the bridge, as they say. And what is your quest at Dragon*Con, my dear?”

“Oh, not a quest,” Doris said, shifting her feet uncomfortably. The attention was starting to scare her.

“The lady needs a chair,” Folsom said, gently. “And a drink, methinks. Nonalcoholic, for the nonce,” he added, pulling out a twenty. “The surrenderer of a chair does not get the drink.”

A bearded man smoking a pipe stood up and waved for Doris to sit. Another took the twenty and went inside.

“Everyone is on a quest,” Folsom intoned. “Always. People say that they have no goals. Pish. Everyone has goals they just haven’t looked closely enough at themselves. Mandy’s goal is to get her shit straight, although I think she underestimates herself. Todd’s is to become Bill Gates or somesuch, whether he internalizes that or not.”

“And yours?” one of the group asked, grinning.

“To have people say ‘Harry who? I’m dying for the next Folsom Duncan book to come out,’” Folsom said, grinning disparagingly. “An unlikely goal to attain, I’ll admit, but a worthy one nonetheless. Forget trying to find an old bone or two, seek the damned Holy Grail! You may fail, probably will based on historical record, but you’ll fail grandly! And undoubtedly find an old bone somewhere on the way. So, what is your quest, young lady? What do you want from Dragon*Con? Think before you answer, take a deep breath and expound. We are muchly ears.”

He pulled a thin cigar out of a breast pocket, lit it and leaned back unthreateningly. He seemed to be actually interested in the answer.

She thought about it for the first time. Really thought about it. Why was she here? What did she want from the con? Well, practical first.

“I need to find a ride home,” she admitted.

“Alas, I don’t know anyone going to Chattanooga,” Folsom said. “And it would have to be a trusted source. That problem shall be solved in time, I’m sure. But what do you want from the con? Why are you here? Not how are you to leave.”

“I want to find people like me,” Doris said.

“Ah, now we get to some really interesting answers,” Folsom said, happily. “Because they beg more questions. Todd, throw me a question to that answer?”

“Uhm…Who are you?” Todd said. “I mean…To find people like you, you need to know who you are?”

“Exactly,” Folsom said. “Ever read military science fiction?”

“I don’t think so…” Doris said, uncertainly.

“Interested in the military?”

“Not really.”

“Know a platoon from a company?”

“No.”

“Then we are not people like you,” Folsom said. “That is not rejecting you. Far be it. I do so desire lovely ladies around but, alas, few of my books appeal to the fairer sex in large numbers. I misdoubt that you will remain long in our company, not because you shall be cast out, but because you will find your own path.

“However, we might help to put your feet upon it. To show you the beginning of the yellow brick road to both who you are and who are your people. Both, I assure you, can be found at Dragon*Con. The Dragon has something for everyone, even the occasional mundane that wanders in. To do so would be a corporal work of mercy, and I need those to my credit. So we must find your needs, wants and desires and perhaps steer you in an appropriate direction. But I do have one suggestion of an interesting true quest, if you will. One that, from my reading of your personality, would be a far jump on that yellow brick road.”

“Yes?” Doris said, totally confused.

“Have you, perchance, looked at the cover of the program book?” Folsom said, grinning.

“No?”

“Might I suggest you extract it from the bag and do so,” Folsom replied.

Doris pulled out the program book, a thick, magazine-sized booklet, and looked at the cover. The cover art was of a red-haired girl in a green bodysuit, leaning against a mirror. Behind her was what looked like the leg of a gigantic monster. On the face reflected in the mirror were either three tears or a tattoo of them.

“Okay,” Doris said. “I looked at it.”

“Like the young lady on the cover, have you looked in a mirror lately?” Folsom said, gently.

“I don’t look anything like her,” Doris insisted.

“Au contraire,” Folsom replied. “The difference is a bit of makeup and a costume. I have never seen such a perfect example of a potential Dawn contestant in my life. You are, my dear, her spitting image. To actually win the contest, of course, requires also a suitable costume, poise and a bit of acting ability. But the potential I see before me is astounding. Seek the Grail! You may pick up a few bones and whatnot. Know anything about costuming?”

“No?” Doris said then paused. “I can sew, though.” She didn’t know where that bit of information came from, but it was certain.

“You’re ninety percent of the way there, then,” Folsom said. “Or so I’m told. To the cobbler his last. I avoid the entire track like the plague. I’d suggest, however, if you have any interest, that you consider hanging out around the costuming track. Fellow that runs it appears to be a bit of a letch, but he’s mostly bark. But he is more than willing, as am I, to spend a bit more time on a lovely young lady than your average costumer. A lovely young lady who can sew would make his heart go pitter-pat.”

“I still couldn’t do that,” Doris said, looking at the cover.

“Could not or would not?” Folsom asked softly. “If you choose not to dress that way, for your own purposes, for your own personality, that is one thing. If you choose not to participate because of fear or shame or the pressure of society, that is another. To find ‘your people,’ you must first know who you are. Are you a person who hides behind a mask of oversized clothing from an innate prudishness? Or someone who hides her person to hide herself? You won’t be young forever. Who do you want to be before you die?”

“Those are the words from the song playing downstairs,” Doris said.

“Rogue and I are friends,” the man said. “He strikes to the heart of many questions. Who are you, Doris Grisham, and more to the point, who do you want to be?”

“Folsom, you have a panel,” the man with the pipe said.

“Damn and blast,” Folsom said, standing up. “I just get to chatting up an exquisite example of the fairer sex and they make me work. Anyway, Doris, I hope you enjoy the con. You’ll often find us out here on the terrace or downstairs slowly killing ourselves with alcohol, tar and nicotine. Feel free to pop in and tell us how your con is going.”

“Okay,” Doris said as the group broke up. A couple of the men appeared torn between following Folsom or staying with the pretty girl, but they all eventually left.

“So what to do with myself now?” she asked as if expecting an answer.

The answer was her stomach rumbling. Okay, food.

She thought about her limited funds and frowned.

“Okay,” she muttered. “ Cheap food.”

One look at the prices in the restaurant put her off of that. She couldn’t even afford the buffet. There was a food court attached to the hotels, but the prices there weren’t much better. With the few bucks in her pocket she might get two meals.

She knew she’d been short on food in her life. She wasn’t sure when or why and was curiously disinterested. It was as if the life before arriving at the convention was a dream, that only the convention was real. But her hunger was real enough and affecting her concentration.

Asking questions was out. There was an information booth setting up, but even asking people whose job it was to answer questions was out. She could barely make her way through the crowds, and it was beyond imagination that she could ever show herself as openly as Duncan had suggested.

On the other hand, she had program books in the bag she was still carrying. She found an out-of-the-way corner and opened them up.

They were strangely cluttered with information, some of it useful and some not. She found the information about the “costuming” track, but only a brief description of the track itself, and most of the panel descriptions were confusing. What, for example, was an “appliance”? It raised strange thoughts in Doris’s head.

However, while poking around in other features of the con, she found out that there was something called a “con suite,” that it was open twenty-four hours a day and that, glory be, it served food.

A goal. A quest. And, as it turned out, it had been right around the corner from where she’d been talking to Duncan.

Now to find her way back. Where was that map?

“Eat, you greedy gluts!” a resonant voice boomed as Doris made her way into the con suite.

The suite, a large set of rooms on the second floor of the Hyatt, was crowded. Doris tried very hard not to make contact with any of the people in the room, most of them kids even younger than her, but it was nearly impossible. It seemed that sixty or seventy people must have crowded into the room as soon as the food was put out.

By the door were piles of cups and large containers of ice. Then a drink dispenser with various soft drinks. Arrayed against the far wall, the target of most of the people crowding into the room, was a set of tables piled with hot dogs, buns and a large crock pot of chili.

“Feed your maggoty bellies from the largesse provided by your loving con! Fill your bottomless pits. Feast, feast, you ravenous hordes!”

The voice was produced by a tall, handsome black man wearing an incongruous Star Trek uniform. Parked towards the back of the room, he seemed to subtly bend the attention of the entire room around him. There were several people standing nearby, many of them apparently trying to get his attention, but he appeared to know what most of them were going to say before they said it.

“More rolls, less hot dogs,” he said, sending one of the minions into the throng. “The Coke’s already running low.” Another darted off.

A heavyset blond man came out of the back room bearing a pile of trays. He looked at the gathered group in annoyance.

“These need to go in the other kitchen,” he said, and was roundly ignored.

“I’ll get them,” Doris said. “Where’s the other kitchen?”

“Far room,” the guy said in an aggrieved tone, then went back in the kitchen.

“’Kay.”

Doris carried the trays through the throng, glad to be doing something that would make her unnoticed. Nobody noticed you if you were working.

She found the other kitchen and dropped the trays on the sink, the only open surface. It seemed every other surface was covered by food or the makings thereof.

Instead of getting in line she went back to the group gathered around the black man, wondering if she should help out more. As far as she could tell, the group gathered around the leader was supposed to be working, but nobody seemed to be actually doing anything.

“Peter!” the man boomed, looking at the tables. “Peter!”

“What?” the blond man said, coming back out of the kitchen.

“Where is the coleslaw? There is a distinct lack of coleslawness!”

“That’s because there’s a distinct lack of roominess in this refrigerator,” the blond man said in an aggrieved tone. “It’s in the other kitchen. I’ve been trying to get someone to get it for the last thirty minutes.”

“Peter, Peter, Peter,” the black man said, taking him gently by the shoulder. “If I have told you once I have told you a thousand times. The minions of the con suite are zombies. You must treat them as such.”

He spun in place and grabbed one of the group by the shoulder, turning him to look into his eye.

“Thomas,” he intoned. “Thomas, you shall obey my every command.”

“Yes, master,” the boy replied. “Unless it’s something sexual, in which case, screw you.”

“Of course. Thomas. You shall lurch your way across the room to the far kitchen. There you shall open up the refrigerator-it is the large upright box against the wall. You shall remove from it the coleslaw and place it upon the table at the far end, where the heavyset kid in the Miskatonic University T-shirt with the forlorn expression, probably due to a lack of coleslaw, is standing. Place it upon the table. Remove the coverings from the coleslaw. Stand back lest you are eaten by the ravenous hordes. Then lurch back here for more tasks.”

“Yes, master,” the boy said.

“Do not eat any brains on the way,” the man noted.

“Yes, master,” the grinning boy said and turned, arms out, to lurch into the crowd.

“Lurch faster!” he boomed, then turned back to his assistant. “There, Peter. That is how to control your minions. Mind control is the best control.”

“Got it,” Peter said, frowning.

“I took the trays over to the kitchen,” Doris said, getting a word in edgewise. “Is there anything else you need?”

“And who is this who performs tasks in my con suite yet bears not the lanyard of staff?” the black man asked. “Speak to us, O lady of beauty and worth!”

“Uh,” Doris replied.

“I see thy name is Doris,” the man said. “Shane Gomez is my name, and I am the master of the con suite, the feeder of the hordes, the supplier of provender to the faceless masses. God of Feasting!

“Thank you,” he added, in a much gentler tone. “I appreciate the assistance. And while I’d take you up on your offer to help more, alas, we are required to put anyone on staff through the mandatory training courses where their brains are removed and replaced by straw so that the zombies-the other zombies, that is-don’t eat them. Since your brains are clearly not straw, I must regretfully decline more assistance for your own safety. Besides, right now I’ve got enough people. But feel free to grab a bite to eat before it’s all gone. In fact…”

He took Doris gently by the elbow and walked to the head of the line.

“This is Doris,” he said to the kid who was next up to the table. “She has performed service beyond compare to the good of the con and to the good of the con suite. In doing so, she lost her place in line. I, as master of the con suite, do now place her in front of you. Problems?”

“No problem, Shane,” the tow-haired kid said, sticking out his hand. “Looking good. How you doing this year?”

“Too soon to tell, really,” Shane replied in a much more normal voice as he shook the proferred hand. “But it looks good so far. Take care, man.”

“You too,” the kid replied, waving Doris in front of him. “Eat up. Most of the good stuff will be gone before you know it.”

Doris snagged a hot dog, chips and coleslaw, then went back around to get a drink. She found a corner that wasn’t occupied and filled her stomach, then considered her situation.

Food was covered. She wasn’t sure where she could sleep, though. She didn’t have enough money for a hotel room, and from passing conversations she’d overheard, she knew all the hotels were full, anyway.

Cross that bridge when she got tired. Right now she had to think. With some food on her stomach that was actually a possibility.

She pulled out the program book again and read it more carefully. All the programming track stuff started tomorrow. So she had until then to think about what she wanted to do. Who she wanted to be, as Duncan had put it.

The nice thing about the con, she realized, was the anonymity. Nobody knew her, she didn’t have any defined place, nobody was really paying her any attention at all. She realized in a flash that she could be anybody she wanted to be. She didn’t have to be Dumb-ass Doris. She could create a new Doris.

She looked at the cover of the main program and frowned. She wasn’t sure she could be the person on the cover, but it had a certain allure. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be noticed, didn’t want to be liked. She just didn’t want to be harassed because of it. If you were pretty, guys took pictures of you. They didn’t stuff you in a locker because you’d pissed off their girlfriends.

She could be anybody she wanted to be. So who did she want to be?