The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak by Brian Katcher Page A

conspirator who led my poor little brother astray. To make him take the heat for what’s shaping up to be an enormous catastrophe.
    Of course, I can’t. Tempting a target as he is, all Zak is guilty of is shooting off his mouth. Clayton ran off of his own free will. And I was the one who let him do it. At least I will be in my parents’ eyes.
    Good grief, if I had just let him go out to eat with Zak, maybe he would have stayed. All I was trying to do was the right thing. That’s all I ever try to do.
    Zak walks alongside me, merrily whistling. I wonder if he’ll ditch me the second we arrive at the convention or if he’ll really help me find Clayton. If he does, I’ll owe him big time. I shudder, picturing myself wearing one of his war hats.
    Zak suddenly reaches out and grabs my arm. I’m creeped out until I realize he’s just guiding me around a water-filled hole in the sidewalk that I was too distracted to notice. When it’s clear I’m not going to step in it, he removes his hand.
    I shake my head. This guy has enough faults to fill an aircraft hangar. But he’s here with me now, looking for my brother. I guess that should count for something.
    I remember how he accidentally dropped his towel in the hotel room and how I pretended I hadn’t seen anything.
    Lord, the first time I see one and it belongs to Duquette, of all people.
    â€œSo what are these things like, Zak?” I ask, in an effort to dispel that mental image. “A bunch of people playing those war games?”
    He smiles at me in an odd way. “There’s a little more to it than that. And call me Duke.”
    â€œOh, you guys also watch movies, right, Zak?”
    His grin widens. “You’ll see. Here we are.”
    The Olympic Convention Center lives up to its name;it’s the largest in the Pacific Northwest. Above the gaping entrance doors hangs a huge banner welcoming everyone to Washingcon. Below that, a towering painting of a cybernetic General George Washington mows down an army of zombie redcoats with what appears to be a coal-fired machine gun. There’s no one outside, probably due to the foul weather. With an elaborate bow, Zak ushers me inside.
    Okay, maybe my impressions of a science fiction convention were based on Duquette and his friends. I knew there’d be a lot of people here, but I was expecting something much more low-key.
    I was not expecting a sixty-something woman dressed like Smurfette. That’s a lot of blue cleavage.
    The lobby is huge, hung with giant banners of watershed moments in U.S. history, as portrayed by robots. Smaller, handmade signs, dot the walls:
    CTHULHU FOR PRESIDENT: THIS TIME, WHY
    CHOOSE THE LESSER OF TWO EVILS?
    LEST WE FORGET: DONATE TO
    THE RED SHIRT MEMORIAL FUND
    REPRODUCE AND POPULATE THE EARTH
    But the people . . . dear God. There must be over a hundred conventioneers there already, snaking out intwo long lines from the registration tables. Dozens of others mill around, talking, laughing, dueling with lightsabers. And many of them are in costume.
    I recognize the octopus guy from Spider-Man, eating a doughnut with one hand and holding a soda with the other, a slice of pizza with the other, and a box of popcorn with the other. There’s one of those Doctor Who robot things, dispensing beer from a keg somehow mounted in its chest. Near the snack bar, a well-endowed woman has attracted a circle of admirers. She’s wearing a corset and not much else. I squint to see what is written or tattooed on her shoulders: BEAT ME UP, SCOTTY .
    â€œImpressive sight, no?” Zak raises his eyebrows devilishly.
    â€œIt’s like something out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.”
    â€œUm . . . yeah, my thoughts exactly. Too bad we can’t go to the masquerade tomorrow night, that’s when you see the really impressive cosplayers.”
    I look back at the crowd, wishing briefly that I could see what he meant by