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    The Early Conundrums: A Spade/Paladin Collection
    The Early Conundrums: A Spade/Paladin Collection
    The Early Conundrums: A Spade/Paladin Collection
    Ebook170 pages2 hours

    The Early Conundrums: A Spade/Paladin Collection

    By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Spade: Secret Master of Fandom and Private Detective.
    Paladin: Spade’s enigmatic sidekick and infamous detective for hire.
    Together: Two of masterful author Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s most popular characters.
    Included are five Spade/Paladin Conundrums: “Stomping Mad,” “The Case of the Vanishing Boy,” “The Karnikov Card,” “Pandora’s Box,” and “Trick or Treat.”

    “I hope to read many more stories about Spade and Paladin.”
    —Bill Crider, Mystery Scene

    USA Today bestselling author Kristine Kathryn Rusch writes in almost every genre. Generally, she uses her real name (Rusch) for most of her writing. Under that name, she publishes bestselling science fiction and fantasy, award-winning mysteries, acclaimed mainstream fiction, controversial nonfiction, and the occasional romance. Her novels have made bestseller lists around the world and her short fiction has appeared in eighteen best of the year collections. She has won more than twenty-five awards for her fiction, including the Hugo, Le Prix Imaginales, the Asimov’s Readers Choice award, and the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Choice Award.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWMG Publishing
    Release dateJun 12, 2014
    ISBN9781310997273
    The Early Conundrums: A Spade/Paladin Collection
    Author

    Kristine Kathryn Rusch

    New York Times bestselling author Kristine Kathryn Rusch writes in almost every genre. Generally, she uses her real name (Rusch) for most of her writing. She publishes bestselling science fiction and fantasy, award-winning mysteries, acclaimed mainstream fiction, controversial nonfiction, and the occasional romance. Her novels have made bestseller lists around the world and her short fiction has appeared in eighteen best of the year collections. She has won more than twenty-five awards for her fiction, including the Hugo, Le Prix Imaginales, the Asimov's Readers Choice award, and the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Choice Award.   

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      Book preview

      The Early Conundrums - Kristine Kathryn Rusch

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      The Early Conundrums: A Spade/Paladin Collection

      Copyright © 2014 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

      Published by WMG Publishing

      Cover and Layout copyright © 2014 by WMG Publishing

      Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing

      Cover art copyright © Tawutsn99/Dreamstime, Milosluz/Dreamstime

      Stomping Mad by Kristine Kathryn Rusch was first published in Return of the Dinosaurs edited by Mike Resnick and Martin H. Greenberg, Daw Books, 1997

      The Case of the Vanishing Boy by Kristine Kathryn Rusch was first published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, January/February, 2010

      The Karnikov Card by Kristine Kathryn Rusch was first published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, January/February, 2011

      Pandora’s Box by Kristine Kathryn Rusch was first published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, January/February, 2012

      Trick or Treat by Kristine Kathryn Rusch was first published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, December 2012

      Smashwords Edition

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

      Introduction

      Stomping Mad

      The Case of the Vanishing Boy

      The Karnikov Card

      Pandora’s Box

      Trick or Treat

      Table of Contents

      About the Author

      Copyright Information

      In Memory of Bill Trojan

      INTRODUCTION

      SPADE, THAT Secret Master of Fandom and private detective extraordinaire, made his first appearance in 1997. Mike Resnick asked me to write a story for an anthology called Return of the Dinosaurs. I’m really not a big dinosaur fan. I read a lot about dinosaurs at the appropriate age (ten, maybe?) and then I moved on to smaller and more girly things, like horses and unicorns (and boys).

      I did what I always do with an anthology invitation: I try to figure out what the other writers will write and then I write something else. Mike developed this anthology in the middle of the Jurassic Park craze, so I figured most writers would deal with that (if they set something in the present) or they would deal with actual dinosaurs.

      So what did I come up with? A science fiction convention focused on dinosaurs.

      I dunno how my brain works, I really don’t. It certainly isn’t normal, that’s for certain.

      As I started to write, I realized I didn’t have an sf element in the story at all. (In fact, when I sent the finished story to Mike, I told him he didn’t need to use it, that I would write him a new story. He used it anyway.) Instead, my main character took over the entire story. Spade, with his opinions, his love of science fiction, his hatred of stupidity, and his uncanny ability to solve crimes, was born.

      I wanted to write more about Spade, but with book deadlines and other pressing short story invitations, I never got the chance. Then one afternoon in 2009, I decided that I would go back to Spade, other deadlines be damned.

      I wrote The Case of the Vanishing Boy, and yet another character appeared, fully formed and ready to solve crimes. The pixish Paladin, with her naturally pointed ears and surly manner, tried to steal the story from Spade. But Spade wouldn’t let her. Instead, they became mismatched partners, unlikely friends, and the center of a series.

      Because, after this, I couldn’t let them go. My sf friends, especially those who are Secret Masters of Fandom (no, I didn’t make that title up), vetted the stories and made sure I got the convention details right. My good friend, book dealer Bill Trojan, read The Case of the Vanishing Boy, and gave me a list of all the possible things I could write about Spade and Paladin.

      He also came up with a full novel plot that I remember only vaguely. Unfortunately, I didn’t write it down, and neither did Bill. He died at the end of the World Science Fiction Convention in August of 2011, leaving a Bill-sized hole in the universe and tantalizing Spade/Paladin possibilities in my memory. The book is dedicated to him, as all the Spade/Paladin stories will be.

      Bill saw all of the stories in this book except Trick or Treat, which I was going to show him when he got back from Worldcon. He would have liked one part of the story at least: Two of Spade’s t-shirts are actual shirts I saw Bill wear.

      I have one rule about my Spade/Paladin stories: they can’t show sf conventions in a bad light. Yes, bad things happen there (as in every walk of life), but sf conventions are, as Spade says, a haven for those of us who love the genre and see ourselves as just a little bit different.

      Spade and Paladin will have many more cases in the future. Some will be the ones Bill suggested; others I have to come up with on my own.

      But rest assured that the SMoF and the tough-as-nails investigator will fix whatever problems they run into, one conundrum at a time.

      —Kristine Kathryn Rusch

      Lincoln City, Oregon

      May 15, 2014

      STOMPING MAD

      SHE CALLED HERSELF the Martha Stewart of Science Fiction, and she looked the part: Homecoming-queen pretty with a touch of maliciousness behind the eyes, a fakely tolerant acceptance of everyone fannish, and an ability to throw the best room party at any given Worldcon in any given year.

      So when a body was found in her party suite, the case came to me. Folks in fandom call me the Sam Spade of Science Fiction, but I’m actually more like the Nero Wolfe: a man who prefers good food and good conversation, a man who is huge, both in his appetite and in his education. I don’t go out much, except to science fiction conventions (a world in and of themselves) and to dinner with the rare comrade. I surround myself with books, computers, and televisions. I do not have orchids or an Archie Goodwin, but I do possess a sharp eye for detail and a critical understanding of the dark side of human nature.

      I have, in the past, solved over a dozen cases, ranging from finding the source of a doomsday virus that threatened to shut down the world’s largest fan database to discovering who had stolen the Best Artist Hugo two hours before the award ceremony. My reputation had grown during the last British Fantasy Convention when I—an American—worked with Scotland Yard to recover a diamond worth £1,000,000 that a Big Name Fan had forgotten to put in the hotel’s safe.

      But I had never faced a more convoluted criminal mind until that Friday afternoon at the First Annual Jurassic Parkathon, a media convention held in Anaheim.

      ***

      The convention was officially called Dinocon I because Crichton’s people, or Spielberg’s people, or some studio’s people wouldn’t give permission to use the Jurassic Park name with a non-sanctioned project. I normally don’t get involved with a media con, especially one held in Anaheim, but this one had a million dollar budget and a state-of-the-art computer system, and I simply couldn’t resist the challenge.

      So I was in Ops with most of the folks running the con when the call came through. Ops, for those of you who’ve never seen one, is a hotel function room with most of the furniture removed, replaced with tables covered with computer equipment, too many chairs, and tons of print out paper. Most of the people working Ops look haggard and stressed by the time the convention starts, and many of them are ready to collapse by the time it’s over. So we really didn’t need to hear some security person, young by the sound of him, on the two-way radio:

      Hey, ah, we got a, um, Situation X, here.

      Everyone in Ops snapped to attention. The actual term was a File X—always a pun, everything a pun—and it was only supposed to be used for an extreme emergency.

      Copy that, Doris, a muscular woman the size of Stallone, said. She headed security, and had at every major con I’d ever worked on. Security is important at sf conventions, perhaps the most important thing, because these cons, as most of you know, aren’t your simple suit-tie-and-briefcase affairs. The big conventions have three levels: the fans, most of whom dress in costume (some medieval barbarians, some Captain Kirk, some space aliens); the pros, most of whom write, act, or somehow work in the science fiction field; the dealers, most of whom sell sf paraphernalia—books, videos, posters, and the ubiquitous Bajoran earrings. Media cons had more earrings, videos, and actors; fewer books, writers, and intellectual discussions. Behind it all is the con-com, the army of people who run the entire shebang, and put out any and all fires along the way. Security deals with most of those: from regular hotel guests who are scared by the werewolf in the elevator to the teenagers who’ve stayed up all night playing the card game Magic, and who suddenly think it fun to pull the fire alarm on the second floor.

      Never, in my twenty years of fandom, have we gotten a call for this kind emergency, and never have I heard a security person sound so scared.

      It’s in room 4708. Can someone come here? The security kid’s voice cracked, confirming my suspicion: he was a volunteer, and he was eighteen at most.

      What’s the nature of the emergency? Doris asked.

      I don’t think you want me to describe it on an open channel, the kid said.

      All right, be right there, Doris said, and left.

      We mused about the Situation X for a moment. Maybe, Ruth, the con chair, said, he saw a fur bikini for the first time.

      It’s the masquerade tonight, John said behind her, and we all laughed. He probably saw a costume, got scared, and decided to call it in. We’d all had that happen before.

      Or maybe it’s pea soup, said Ben, and I, being most senior on the staff, groaned. I remembered that one, which had now eased into fannish legend. Just after The Exorcist came out, some fans in Baltimore held a room party and served pea soup along with the usual potato chips, cheese, and beer. After midnight, when the crowd got really drunk, someone had the brilliant idea of imitating Linda Blair in the famous vomit sequence. Of course, everyone had to do it, and by the time security arrived, a sea of pea soup was running down the corridor like the Blob without the assistance of the special effects people.

      Please, ghod, anything but that, I said.

      At that moment, the phone rang. Ruth answered, and handed it to me, her tired face filled with confusion and surprise. It’s Doris, she said. For you.

      I slid my chair back and grabbed the phone, feeling as confused as Ruth looked. Doris could have radioed me. That would have been procedure. Maybe something was really up in 4708.

      Yeah? I said.

      Spade, she said—my fannish friends had called me Spade since I solved the first case almost twelve years before—you’ve gotta come up here. Now.

      What’s going on? I asked.

      An absolute disaster, she said, and hung up.

      Why didn’t she use the radio? Ruth asked.

      I shrugged. I guess she didn’t want anyone else wandering up to the room. I eased myself out of my special chair, the one that I insist a con-com bring to every convention if they want my services, and with a push of a button, shut down the financial files on Dinocon’s main computer. Then I made my way slowly—because I never hurry—to the fourth floor of the main convention hotel.

      Dinocon had 8,000 registered attendees, and it was only Friday afternoon. The convention was scheduled to go through Sunday, and another 2,000 people were expected at the door on Saturday. Most of these folks were already crowding the halls, having conversations with friends they hadn’t seen for a while and trying to discover where that night’s parties would be held. I squeezed my way through—negotiating packed hallways was never easy for a man of my bulk—and made it to the elevator in time to nab the last spot. No one complained, though, as I squooshed people toward the back. Part of that was my con-com badge—regular con attendees knew better than to harass a person in a con-com badge—and part of it was my reputation.

      Hey, Spade! someone yelled from the back. You get a piece of that diamond?

      I don’t charge for my services, I said, in

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