Rise: A Newsflesh Collection

by Mira Grant

  “Oh, thank God.” Rebecca turned, shoulders sagging in relief. “I thought you were never going to get here.”

  “Traffic was worse than we expected. This year is going to be crazy.” Shawn Tutt—United States Coast Guard and designated booth organizer—walked over and gathered Rebecca into a firm hug. He was tall enough to tower over her, something that didn’t seem to bother either of them.

  Shawn’s wife, Lynn, and teenage daughter, Lorelei, followed him to the booth, slowed by the large plastic tub that they carried between them. It was packed to capacity with T-shirts and rolled posters.

  Lorelei cleared her throat. “Is there someplace we can set this down? My arms are getting tired.” She was almost as tall as her father, and her naturally brown hair was streaked with bright green.

  “Let me.” Vanessa—a quietly pretty woman in a black T-shirt—put down her iPad and hurried to relieve Lynn and Lorelei of their burden. Before they had a chance to thank her she was gone, carrying the tub off to put it with the rest of the merchandise.

  “The van’s stuffed,” said Lynn. She was shorter than Lorelei and taller than Rebecca, with short brown hair. “If we can get some people to help us unload it, we’ll be able to help set things up in here.”

  “Of course.” Rebecca pulled away from Shawn. “Dwight…”

  “I know, I know. Strong back, weak mind.” Dwight climbed down from the stepladder, putting the hammer he’d been using down on the nearest stack of boxes. “I’m on it.”

  “Take some of the others with you. Anyone who looks like they’re not doing something absolutely vital is fair game.”

  “I’ll start unpacking shirts,” said Lorelei.

  “No, you won’t, but that was a nice try,” said Shawn. “You’ll empty the van with the rest of us.”

  Lorelei sighed, managing to express in a simple exhale just how frustrated she was with the entire situation. “I’ve been cooped up in that van for hours, Dad. Why do I have to help you unload it?”

  “Because everybody pitches in during setup,” said Shawn. “Come on. The faster we get started, the faster we’ll be finished.” He turned and walked back the way he’d come. Half the booth followed him, most of them looking relieved to have something else to do.

  “Finally,” said Rebecca, and reached for the hammer. “Now we can get things done around here.” She climbed up on the stepladder, humming the theme from Doctor Who under her breath, and got to work.

  11:00 A.M.

  The parking garage attached to the San Diego Convention Center was reserved for “official vehicles” during the convention itself—people who were affiliated with one of the vendors or fan groups in the main exhibit hall, core convention staffers, and attending celebrities of sufficient importance that they couldn’t be expected to walk more than a few hundred yards out in the open, where enthusiastic fans might catch them. It was still early enough on Wednesday afternoon that almost a third of the spaces were empty. That wouldn’t last. Long before the convention really got underway, the garage would be full to the point of becoming a fire hazard, and the parking attendants would be on the prowl, looking for vehicles that didn’t belong. Anyone found without the appropriate tags and permits would be towed, no questions asked or warnings given.

  The Tutts had traveled down the California coast from the Bay Area in a large white-panel van. The space that hadn’t been carved out for passengers was packed to the gills with the bins, boxes, and plastic tubs that contained the supplies for the booth. They weren’t the only people bringing items for the convention—that would have required three vans, and left no room for either driver or passengers—but they were definitely the most important, apart from Rebecca, who had driven down with a trailer that contained the actual booth structure. Without their stores of merchandise, decorations, and most important, snacks, the convention would have been a grim place for the Browncoats.

  Shawn handed Robert—Leita’s skinny, long-limbed older brother—a flat of Coke. He stacked a flat of Diet Coke on top of it a few seconds later. “Think you can take two more, or is that your limit?”

  Robert whistled. “First, I can take four more, but I won’t, because I don’t feel like showing you up. Second, are we preparing for a convention or a siege?”

  “You weren’t here last year, were you?” asked Dwight. He clapped Robert on the shoulder, sending the slimmer man staggering forward a step and nearly causing him to drop the soda. Robert shot him a wounded look. “The only difference between a Comic-Con and a siege is whether or not they’re actually trying to kill you. And sometimes these ones try to kill you anyway, just to keep things interesting.”

  “Don’t scare him away before his shift, Dwight,” said Shawn.

  Lorelei scowled as she dug a plastic bin out of the back of the van and hefted it in front of her, her knuckles going white from the strain. “What if we all tried doing our jobs and getting this over with before they open the doors?” she asked sourly. “I know it’s not the fun, free-wheeling party that we’re having right now, but it might make for an interesting change.”

  “Lorelei—” Lynn began.

  She was too late: Her teenage daughter had already turned on her heel and was stalking away, back toward the entrance to the show floor. She sighed.

  “I know she loves Comic-Con, but her attitude is going to be the death of me,” she said.

  “She’s been in the car since this morning,” said Shawn. “Let’s get the van unloaded, and then I’ll talk to her.”

  “She always listens to you,” said Lynn. She didn’t sound happy about that.

  Shawn kissed the top of her head and went back to unloading the van.

  The other Browncoats looked uneasily at anything but the Tutts while all this was going on. They might regard themselves as one big family—a crew of people joined by common interests and uncommon hobbies—but there was something about seeing a mother getting angry with her child that reminded them all of their own childhoods. Some experiences are nearly universal, and no more pleasant when viewed from the outside.

  The easy camaraderie was gone as they finished unpacking the van, loading boxes and crates onto a pallet loader that Dwight requisitioned from the custodial staff. Then they went trudging back into the increasingly crowded hall. Fun was fun, but it was time to get to work.

  2:00 P.M.

  The damn Browncoats were nearly done setting up their booth, which was a relief to anyone who had to set up near them. It wasn’t that they were bad neighbors—they weren’t, and they always had plenty of supplies, which could be a godsend when things got really crazy. But they were also loud, and enthusiastic, and had a tendency to break into song with little to no provocation. Sometimes Marty suspected that oxygen was all the provocation they needed. It wouldn’t be so bad once the convention got underway. Once the halls were crammed with fans, the Browncoats could host a live concert in their booth and it wouldn’t make a dent in the overall noise levels. Hell, at previous conventions, the Browncoats had hosted live concerts, and Marty had been aware of them only after the fact.

  “How’s that shelving coming, Eric?” he called, forcing himself to stop glaring at the plywood wall behind him. The noise of the laughing Browncoats drifted through from the other side. At least someone was having fun.

  After ten years of Comic-Con, fun was no longer Marty’s top priority, if it ever had been. He was here to work. He wiped a smear of chalk off his dark brown skin, waiting for Eric’s response.

  Eric held up a wire basket. “I’m almost done. I just need to get the plush hangers in place, and then we can start unboxing the merchandise.” Eric had been Marty’s assistant for three years. He was a tall, skinny man, with gawky good looks that seemed to pull the women toward the booth. It was good for profits, even if Eric wasn’t for sale.

  “We have four hours before those doors open and the hordes descend,” said Marty. He picked up a box of graphic novels, beginning to stack them neatly on one of the already constructed
bookshelves. God bless IKEA in all its many forms. “Where’s Pris?”

  “She’s on the lunch run,” Eric replied. “I figured we should get some actual food before the insanity begins.”

  “Trust me. By the end of this weekend, you’re going to be ranking food well under sleep and alcohol on your personal scale.” Marty continued stacking graphic novels. “Did you give her money?”

  “I told her you’d reimburse her when she got back.”

  “Of course you did.” Another burst of raucous laughter came from the direction of the Browncoats. Marty grimaced. “Do you think she’ll be smart and bring back beer?”

  “Probably not this early in the convention.”

  “No, probably not. She’ll learn. Now finish getting those shelves up.”

  Eric grinned and snapped off a quick salute. “Aye-aye, Skipper.”

  All around them, other merchants, artists, and exhibitors were in the process of finalizing their booths, getting their walls up and their artwork hung as they turned the convention center floor into a labyrinth of tiny, temporary spaces. Some not so tiny: The movie studios, television networks, and larger comic companies had booths that were easily the size of large retail stores, each one flashier than the last. The network that produced Space Crime Continuum had even constructed a full-sized replica of the precinct headquarters where their intrepid Time Police did their jobs and smiled for the cameras. Banners with row numbers dangled from the ceiling to help people figure out where they were actually going. Thanks to the annually shifting design of the booths, even old hands could get lost during the first few days of Comic-Con.

  By day three, the floor would be so jammed with bodies that getting lost wouldn’t be nearly as much of a concern as getting crushed, or being swept three rows past your destination by people who were packed together too tightly for you to fight your way free. It hadn’t always been that way, but since Hollywood had discovered Comic-Con, the people had come in increasing numbers every year. Tickets had been sold out for months. Only the lucky would be getting through those doors, and the lucky would number in the thousands.

  “Another day, another battle for survival,” Marty muttered.

  4:30 P.M.

  “I can’t believe we’re actually here! This is going to be so much fun!” Patty flung herself backward onto the hotel bed, arms and legs splayed like she was going to start making snow angels on the industrial-grade duvet. “My first Comic-Con! I’ve wanted to go since I was twelve. Did I tell you that?”

  “Yes, you did,” said Matthew, unpacking his duffel bag into the top drawer of the room’s small dresser. “Five times during the ride from the airport alone. Also, you need to stop using so many exclamation points when you speak. That can’t be healthy.”

  “You just say that because you’re British,” said Patty.

  Matthew paused in the process of tucking a shirt into the drawer, squinting at her. “What does that even mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just figured it would make you stop ragging on me about the way I talk.” Patty sat up and stuck her tongue out at him. “We’re at Comic-Con. We’re newlyweds. This is a time for geek love and geekier lust. Now stop putting your clothes away and come take some of my clothing off of me.”

  “I wish I could do that, you poorly punctuated enchantress, but all it will do is make you angry.” Matthew continued unpacking.

  “What? Why would you ravishing me make me angry? I’m pretty sure that being ravished is in my newlywed contract.”

  “Because the doors will open for Preview Night in a little over an hour, and you wanted to be on the show floor first thing. I assure you, while I’m able to resist your allure by staying over here and dealing with my trousers, if I begin the ravishing process, I won’t be finished after a mere hour.”

  Patty folded her arms. “I hate it when you make sense.”

  “If you hate it when I make sense, you should have married a politician, not a scientist. Scientists make sense because we can’t imagine a world where there would be any point to doing anything else.”

  “I think you enjoy it.”

  “That, too.” Matthew gestured toward Patty’s suitcase. “Why don’t you unpack? You’ll feel better if you’re doing something, and as soon as you’re done, we can head for the convention center and queue up to get our badges.”

  “Comic-Con.” Patty heaved a happy sigh, her sulk already forgotten. “Can you believe we’re really here?”

  This was a familiar loop: They’d been around it dozens of times since the plane that carried them from London to San Diego began its initial descent. Matthew smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I rather do believe I can.”

  5:30 P.M.

  Elle Riley, star of the moderately well-rated science fiction drama Space Crime Continuum, waited not-so-patiently for the man who was supposed to be escorting her around the convention to get his goddamn act together already. He’d been arguing with the convention center security for the better part of twenty minutes—no, twenty-five minutes, according to her phone—about whether they could use the service tunnels. If he didn’t work things out soon, she was going to be late for her first panel. Not that SCC was that big of a deal, or it wouldn’t have been one of the first shows presenting at the convention. Still, they had two panels this weekend, one on Preview Night and one on Sunday afternoon, and she didn’t want to mess things up for the rest of her cast. She was already going to make the panel a living hell. She could at least be on time.

  Some actors were chosen because of raw talent, or because of the kind of drive that could be used to power the time ships her franchise was built around. Elle was smart enough to know that she hadn’t been cast for either of those reasons. She could read a script, she could give a reasonably nuanced performance, and she could deliver technobabble explanations of hackneyed plot twists with the best of them. But none of those things were responsible for her continued employment. No matter what the blogs sometimes implied about her, Elle Riley was too smart to think that she got work when better actresses didn’t because she was somehow more deserving.

  She got work when better actresses didn’t because she was pretty, and because she had big green eyes that she could widen with the right degree of confusion and awe when someone told her she was looking at a time anomaly on the green screen, and most of all, because the ratings went up every time the writers found a good reason for her character—the fetching chronoforensic analyst Indiction “Indy” Rivers—to take a deep breath. And all of this meant that when she sat on a panel, at least half the questions from the audience would be thinly veiled excuses to tell her how pretty she was.

  At least the convention-supplied moderators managed to block the marriage proposals and offers of private dinners. Mostly. When they didn’t stop the questions from being asked, the moderators hurried the questioner away before he—or sometimes she, although that was rarer, which was amusing, all things considered—could expect an answer. And all of that was secondary to the fact that they were about to be late.

  Elle cleared her throat, trying to be polite about it, and aware that no matter how polite she was, there was a good chance she would be interpreted as another spoiled starlet trying to throw her weight around. “Um, excuse me?” The two men continued arguing. “Excuse me?” They still gave no sign that they’d noticed her. Elle sighed before stepping forward and tapping her handler on the shoulder. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Riley?” The handler turned to face her. He’d been doing this job long enough to be very good at hiding his irritation, but Elle had been doing her job long enough to catch it anyway, reading his displeasure in the way the muscles tensed around his eyes. Still, his tone was completely professional as he asked, “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, and I really appreciate the way you’re trying to take care of me, but we’re going to miss my panel if we don’t start moving about five minutes ago.” Elle grimaced apologetically. “I think they sort of want me to be there.”


  Her handler’s eyes widened as he looked down at his own watch. Then he swore—too softly for her to make out the exact words, but the tone was enough to make his meaning clear—and said, “Ms. Riley, if you don’t mind, I think we need to start moving if we want to get you to your panel on time.”

  Elle bit back several caustic responses before settling on a neutral “Yes, that’s probably a good idea. Are we taking the service halls?”

  Her handler nodded. The convention center security guard shook his head. Her handler frowned, but appeared to realize that it was long past the time to stop arguing and start moving. “No, ma’am, we’re not. It’s late enough that we need to cut through the convention center floor. If you’d just follow me, I’ll get you to your panel before they even start seating your costars.”

  Privately, Elle doubted that this was physically possible, especially if they were taking the route through the middle of the main floor. It might be Preview Night, but if the doors had opened while her handler was arguing with the security guard, there would be literally thousands of comic book and television aficionados crammed into the single cavernous room. Once upon a time, before Space Crime Continuum had come into her life, a girl named Elle Riley would have been out there with the rest of them. And given how her teenage self would have reacted to a real live television star suddenly popping into view, this would be like trying to play through the final boss level of a modern-day version of Frogger. Only this game would have autograph chasers in place of alligators, and large clots of fans taking pictures of a woman dressed like slave-girl Princess Leia in place of trucks.

  And there was absolutely no point in arguing about it, because they were out of time. Elle put on a sunny smile. “Well, then,” she said. “Let’s get moving.”

  5:45 P.M.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—and Browncoats who refuse to tie themselves down to a single option—I declare the 2014 California Browncoats booth open for business!” Rebecca flung her arms open in a gesture that would probably have been more triumphant than threatening if she hadn’t still been holding a hammer. Dwight swore and ducked. Shawn laughed. Rebecca blinked at them before turning to look at the tool clutched in her hand. With a sigh, she put it down on the nearest flat surface. “As I was saying…”