San Diego 2014 Read Free

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