San Diego 2014

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Lorelei Tutt is a harshly attractive woman in her forties, tall and lean, with scars from her combat gear on her hands and elbows. Her naturally brown hair is streaked with natural gray and sterilization blonde, and she wears it in a short-cropped, almost military style that does nothing to soften the lines of her face. She walks with a subtle limp, the result of learning to walk on a prosthetic right leg at the age of twenty-five. Her left eye is shaped normally but filmed with cataract white from an old war injury. She moves with studied precision, and it is clear from her expression that she is not happy to see me.

The front room of her London flat is at odds with her appearance: The time she spent in the United States Coast Guard has left her seeming businesslike and cool, but her decor is that of a teenage member of the science fiction and fantasy subculture that thrived before the Rising. Books and assorted forms of recorded media pack her shelves, and the walls are covered in posters advertising long-canceled television shows, long-forgotten movies.

She indicates that I should sit. She does not do the same. Her accent is American: She may have left the country of her birth after she left the Coast Guard, but some things are not so easily forgotten.

Lorelei freezes. I have never seen this happen so literally before: One moment I am speaking to a living, if cold, woman, and the next, I am sharing a room with a statue made of flesh. When she speaks again, what little human warmth her voice contained is gone.

There is a long silence. I begin to think that I’ve lost her—and then Lorelei gestures for me to stand, beckoning me deeper into the flat.

I nod, rise, and follow the last known survivor of the 2014 San Diego International Comic Convention out of the front room. She leads me to the kitchen, where she fills the electric kettle and sets the water to boil. She moves with nervous efficiency. She does not look at me. The time for looking at me is done.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014: 10:24
A.M.

The sky over San Diego was a beautifully pristine shade of blue, the sort of thing that triggered a thousand tourist snapshots and seemed impossible to anyone who hadn’t seen it with their own eyes. The streets were already beginning to fill with the early arrivals, the people who had come to town for whatever reason before the official start of the convention. Some were there to wait for the doors to open on Preview Night, hoping to snag early bargains or rare collectibles. Others were there to settle into their hotel rooms and prepare for the chaos to come. And still others—such as the California Browncoats, a nonprofit fan organization modeled around the protagonists of a canceled science fiction Western called
Firefly
—were there to set up their official booths.

“I know you don’t have much respect for authority, Dwight, but around here we respect the laws of physics,” said Rebecca, a petite brunette with a clipboard in one hand. She looked from her paperwork to the former Marine, who was trying, somewhat vainly, to hang the awning from their booth’s precarious piping-and-plywood frame. “That means that if you’re not careful, you’re going to plummet and crack your skull open on this lovely concrete floor. Can we try to not have any major injuries
before
the show opens this year? It would be a fantastic improvement over last year.”

“I’m not the one who injured myself last year,” Dwight shot back as he continued tinkering with the bolts that were supposed to hold the awning in place. “That honor goes to Leita, who doesn’t understand that you’re not supposed to pick up knives by the pointy end.”

“Hey!” Leita’s head popped up over the edge of the display case. She pouted prettily at Dwight, the studs beneath her lower lip poking upward at an angle. “It’s not my fault.”

“It never is,” Dwight said, and kept working.

Rebecca sighed. “Just please try not to fall and die before we’re finished setting up? I am begging you. This is my begging-you voice.”

“Do you need me to whip these heathens into shape?” demanded a voice from behind her, loud enough to command attention without shouting, the kind of voice that made cadets jump and crowds clear out of the way.

“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
.”