“You’re crazy,” Dave said.
“You’re amazing,” Andie Mae said, firmly. “Not to mention irretrievably weird. Can it do that?”
Xander handed his design to Boss, who took it, looked at it, and then touched the surface of the replicator, opening up a thin slot into which he fed the paper Xander had given to him. After a moment the replicator did its thing, and the pizza on the central platform was now neatly encased in a flat brown box on top of which, in glorious and somewhat artistically improved detail, glowed a rendition of Xander’s design.
“Wild,” Xander crowed. “This is just wild. I’ll take it in to them myself. I want to watch their faces.” He reached out and pulled the box out of the receptacle of the replicator, balancing it on the palms of both hands, and spun theatrically around on his heels. “In the meantime — just remember. Don’t think of Tribbles. Nobody think about Tribbles. You do remember what happened the last time someone thought about Tribbles near a replicator, don’t you? And we don’t have a convenient Klingon ship to dump them into this time. Just think about something entirely and completely different from Tribbles. Is everyone not thinking about Tribbles now? Good, my work here is done. Off to deliver pizza now. Out of this world pizza.” He cackled gleefully and stalked off in the direction of the gamers’ ballroom, bearing the pizza before him like a sacrificial offering.
“One more good reason not to have these freely available in the corridors,” Dave muttered. “They make people insane. There goes one nutter already.”
“Fine,” Andie Mae said, trying to sound stern and commanding but quite ruining the effect by the goofy grin that still wreathed her features. “Fine, then. We’ll do that. We’ll scatter them strategically and only access on a need — to — know basis, and honestly, this is entirely too much for anyone to need to know right now. Their needs will be met, for the time being, anyhow, does that take care of your objections, Luke?”
“Er,” the hapless manager said, looking a little shell — shocked. “Er, I guess so. If there is anything…”
“If there’s anything specific that’s a problem, just get one of us,” Dave said. “Or talk to Boss. He knows you’re one of the Chiefs. Doctor…?”
“One of these will be in my control?” Dr. Cohen said, sounding faintly alarmed.
“Essentially, yes,” Dave said. “Use it wisely. Er, Captain, I’m sorry, with all this I’ve spaced on your name — are there concerns you wanted to bring to our attention?”
“Concerns?” Captain William Lindstrom said, with a slow smile and the faintest trace of a Southern drawl. “I might say I’m fascinated, perhaps just a little alarmed, but concerned? Hardly that. You have to realize…” He drew a deep breath. “Look, kids,” he said. “When I was a boy I idolized Neil Armstrong and James T. Kirk with an equal passion, and could not possibly make up my mind which of those two I wanted to grow up to be. Turns out, thanks to you guys, all I had to do was grow up to be myself — and here I am, kind of being both. It is, as your friend already said, wild.”
“I thought you wanted to raise something…?” Luke said, turning his head sharply.
“I just wanted to meet the people who were apparently in charge of the show,” Captain Lindstrom said, with a slow smile. “And perhaps shake someone’s hand. And say thank you. I tagged along with you and the good doctor when I heard you were going to go confront the relevant individuals, that’s all. I have no beef, none whatsoever — I think all this is absolutely marvelous, and I simply wanted to say thank you, to somebody. I’m not sure what the reason is behind any of this, or if there is one, but you know what, it doesn’t matter. So long as I got to go along for the ride. I’ll never forget this layover, kids. Much obliged!”
He caught Dave’s eye and actually saluted smartly, and then took a half — step forward to pick up one of Andie Mae’s hands and bend over it in a gallant gesture of manners drawn from long — gone days. And then he turned away and sauntered off, whistling something tuneful and unidentifiable under his breath.
“Well,” said Andie Mae, gazing at his retreating back, “I was worried about the non — con audience — but it looks like we have at least one fan out there. That’s a relief.”
“Wait till we hit the moon,” Dave muttered darkly.
“I hope not,” Andie Mae said. “For the record, Boss, we do want to avoid crashing into celestial bodies. Luke here is already worried stiff about the insurance claims.”
“Will you take this seriously?” Dave said. “You just wait… and watch the stampede.”
“We are monitoring our trajectory closely,” Boss said with maddening serenity. “There is no cause for alarm.”
“Sure, so you say now,” Dave said. And then looked down and appeared to notice for the first time that he still held a half — full cup of aromatic brown brew. His brows knit into a frown as he stared at the cup and then lifted his eyes to the rest of his companions. “Does anyone want the rest of this silly tea?”
By the time Xander caught up with the rest of the ConCom again, he was barely in time to breathlessly announce to the Con Ops room at large that the time was now or never if anyone wanted to go and observe the first panel of the con in which one of the androids had been roped into taking part. It was more than enough to send several people scrambling for the door, and Xander brought up the rear of the party, beaming with satisfaction.
The panel room was packed, every seat taken and people sitting cross — legged on the floor right in front of the panel table and crowding in at the back where there was standing room only. The panel itself was on a topic that many of those present had seen discussed before at any number of conventions, and in the program book it went under the less than inspiring name of “When Is Your Villain Too Evil?” There were four original panelists, and the late addition to the table, perched somewhat uncomfortably to the side in a chair that did not appear to have been built to accommodate his particular specifications, his face expressionless, his attitude quite impassive, both hands resting palms down on his thighs, was the android whom Xander had dubbed Bob.
The human panelists had introduced themselves and their works, and had then all turned with some curiosity to their newly — added colleague. The silver — skinned android registered the expectant silence, turned his head marginally in their direction, and then back to facing forward once more.
“I am designated as B008199ZX5, and I understand that my secondary designation for the duration of the period I am projected to spend in this environment is Bob,” he said, following to the letter the protocol he had observed the other panelists use. He did not have any published works to mention, so he contented himself with that. After waiting for another moment to see if the android would say anything more, the panel moderator cleared his throat and faced the packed room again.
“I guess we should maybe start by defining what exactly we mean by ‘villain’,” the moderator said. “In my experience it is often better to make sure right at the beginning that we’re all talking about the same thing — and on this topic there’s always been a swirling inexactitude around the concept of an actual villain and a mere antagonist. I would suggest that a character who is merely standing in a protagonist’s way, in some passive manner, or even someone who may be doing some active thing because of his or her own needs and requirements, even though that thing might get in our protagonist’s way is not a villain. A villain, to be worthy of the name, needs to have a concentrated and focused malicious intent squarely aimed at our protagonist’s wellbeing or even existence. Does the panel want to weigh in on this…?”