She silently loaded her cart with fifty-pound bags of rice, dried beans, coffee, and dog food while considering her choice in career. This wasn’t what she thought she was going to do while growing up, but really she had stopped thinking about having a life when she was eighteen.
True, she had always loved filming videos, but it had never occurred to her that she could make money doing it. She had graduated from high school without a plan, vaguely thinking she’d do something like join the Pittsburgh police force or fire department or open a daycare. She lucked into the job at WQED and collided with Hal.
He’d pitched Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden to Dmitri as a remake of his network hit lawn-makeover show on a shoestring budget. In truth, though, it had been Hal’s way to flee an avalanche of failure on Earth. The early local episodes were boring, mundane and ultimately useless to anyone. Hal zombie-walked through the episodes, sliding toward alcoholism. Jane had been assigned to be Hal’s “production assistant” but what she’d really been hired to do was head off his self-destructive tendencies brought on by boredom.
Jane saw the need for change in the show—for Pittsburgh’s sake and Hal’s. Together they shifted it toward addressing the dangerous species of flora and fauna that crept into people’s homes. It was important work. They saved lives at the risk of their own.
Of course they’d had to steamroll over their producer to do it. An imported New York City talent, the man just didn’t understand Pittsburgh or how to stay in control of his minions. Her little brothers would have eaten him alive.
After they chewed through two more imported producers, Dmitri had promoted her into the slot. That was six years ago—and all six years they’d been the top show of Pittsburgh.
The checkout girl eyed the sawdust still clinging to Jane’s blue jeans, the soot on her face, and the one lone leaf stuck in her braid. “Strangle vine, eh? They’re bitches. Gave me nightmares as a kid. You know what Mr. Rogers says on PB&G?” She pulled a pair of pruning shears out of her back pocket. “Never go out unarmed.”
PB&G was the locals’ affectionate way of referring to Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden. The station ran with the nickname and changed their logo to look like a PB&J sandwich. The line was actually Jane’s favorite saying that Hal stole for the show. It reflected what growing up in Pittsburgh had taught her. None of the New York imports had ever been able to wrap their brains around that. They used to mock her—quietly—for always having a variety of weapons near at hand.
No way she was going back to that.
WQED was one of the three channels still in Pittsburgh, one-time proud home to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, which made Hal’s last name of Rogers faintly ironic. Originally part of the PBS system, they lost their funding when the United Nations took control of the city, which was a bunch of bullshit as most of the population still considered themselves “Americans.” However, since Pittsburgh was now under UN jurisdiction, the residents only paid city taxes, not state or federal. WQED currently was affiliated with NBC since the local NBC station had been wiped out in the first Shutdown. The other two local TV stations hadn’t fared much better; all three stations were on equal footing. It was a lose-lose situation for the television viewers.
As it was, the WQED studio in Oakland was nearly razed by the Rim as it cut its way through parallel universes. From space, it looked like a perfect fifty-mile-diameter circle punched through reality. At street level, the line wobbled oddly so you couldn’t actually use map and compass to plot its course. She wasn’t sure if it was because the orbital gate shifted over time or if the Rim varied in thickness at different points. Whatever the reason, WQED no longer sat deep within the confines of city, but at the edge of the mile-wide field that was alternately used as a pasture, fairground, or airfield of the big living airships. One of the massive creatures currently floated above the grass, announcing that the viceroy was in town.
“No damage today,” she told the studio’s motor pool mechanic Juergen Affenzeller as he came out to greet her in the parking lot. She backed the production truck into its assigned space.
“Hey, Jane!” Juergen leaned in the passenger side to pat Chesty. Since he’d been introduced as a friend to the elfhound, he didn’t get his face ripped off. “Saw the show. That was epic.”
“Really?” He couldn’t have seen today’s filming but last week’s show had been fairly tame for them. They tackled Earth’s common poison ivy, oak, and sumac and Elfhome’s death crown and bloodied lace, which were both deadly in a very sedate way.
“It was totally awesome! Yoyo Hal!” Juergen bounced up and down as an upright version of Hal falling repeatedly out of the tall wind oak only to be re-caught and dragged upwards because he insisted on doing commentary in calm even tones. “It’s important to note that a strangle vine can have as many as thirty-seven snare vines. Gak! You need to strike the base of the plant, its nerve center, to kill the strangle vine. Fuck! Never tackle one of these alone. Jane!”
She stared at Juergen in dismay. He’d seen all that? Live? Unedited? With all the embarrassing parts still intact? How?
The mechanic continued to act out today’s filming. “And you. Rawr!” He mimed the chainsaw. “That rocked! And then Brian! ‘Don’t try this at home, hire a professional pest control contractor.’ ” Brian was Brian Scroggins, Pittsburgh Fire Marshal and accidental guest co-host on a regular basis. “Just epic.” She fled the embarrassing recount, ignoring the belated “So how is Hal?”
Dmitri was in the break room, stealing all the coffee. Jane would have avoided him otherwise.
“I need some of that.” She leaned against the doorway, waiting for the coffee and the questions.
He started a new pot of coffee brewing. “So?”
It was his way of asking all possible questions at once.
“The fire is out. Brian isn’t going to press charges. Hal has a broken nose, a dislocated left hip, probably a mild concussion—once again that damn pith helmet saved him from anything serious—and first-degree burns on his foot after his boot caught on fire. Nothing major but we’re still out of production until his face heals.”
Dmitri picked up the insulated pitcher full of coffee and tilted his head in a “follow me” signal. “Oh, didn’t know you could dislocate a hip.”
“It takes talent,” Jane growled as she followed him through the studio. It would get her coffee faster.
The office area was a kicked anthill of activity with people on the phone and gesturing at each other madly. Still, as Jane passed, people would nod and sometimes cover their headsets to murmur, “Great job, Jane” or “Great show, Jane.”
“What? Was everyone in production with you?” She clung to anger to tamp down on the hot blush of embarrassment burning at her collar line, trying to climb higher. She hated it when she ended up on camera. It meant she lost control of Hal, which was quickly followed by nearly losing Hal.
Dmitri snatched up the morning Post-Gazette and waved it toward her. “Princess Tinker came home last night with the viceroy.”
“I saw his gossamer out on the Faire Grounds.”
“Well, she just tore the living hell out of Perrysville North, beyond the Rim.”