The dealer’s room was a celebration of capitalism on acid. Everywhere money changed hands frantically, weeks or months of wages tossed away on all manner of useless gewgaws, from mediocre books signed by mediocre authors to overpriced replicas of non-existent weapons. The crowd was filled with all kinds and manners of beings, from armor-clad science-fiction mercenaries to women who were both nearly attractive and nearly dressed.

Matt Anders surveyed the crowd, noting a wide range of would-be aliens, cyborgs, and monsters. All of them were fairly palpably fake. That was good. Too authentic, and the INS guys might show, demanding that you take your head off, or else they would. Immigration laws were getting stricter every day. Congress was about to require DNA tests for all employment – not that that would weed out any of the truly human refugees.

At least that’s not my job, he thought glumly. I don’t have to go telling people, “Sorry, we know where you came from is hell. Tough luck, you can’t stay here.” All I do, he thought, is round up greedy nerds.

He looked around at the rows and rows of dealers. And on that note, this is a target-rich environment.

He glanced down at the business card in his hand: “Big Frank’s Comics And More!” On the back was scribbled the somewhat cryptic notation: “G-820.” Matt glanced up. Aisle G was one row over. He pushed through the thick crowd until he found the booth he was looking for.