"Now that's a stage mama if I ever saw one," Jamie said, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.
Kyle looked up from testing the feel of the shackles on his wrists and ankles. Post-production would insert all the blinking lights and shimmer of electrical current that was supposed to restrain Bridger and knock him unconscious whenever he resisted orders from colony security. Right now, the shackles were just hunks of dull gray plastic that looked like they had been rejected from building the Death Star. He followed his cousin's gesture into the three-sided courtyard of the hotel.
Bryce Hancock, story head, was just settling down at one of the glass-topped tables set up on the concrete slab around the pool. With him were a man who looked slightly familiar -- Kyle was sure he had been introduced as someone's agent last week -- a woman in faded jeans and khaki jacket, and a girl who looked around his sister's age. The woman and girl looked enough alike, with snub noses, square cheekbones, pointed chins, and long, honey-colored hair caught to the left side of their heads in a single, glossy ponytail, they had to be mother and daughter.
"Bryce doesn't do casting," Kyle said, and slipped the shackles off his wrists.
"Yeah, well, this outfit isn't as well-heeled as they'd like you to think. The big-wigs are covering each other's jobs, instead of bringing in more staff. Save money," his cousin retorted. "What other reason would they be here? They're casting for the first script." He frowned and leaned forward, as if to see the two strangers better. "Can't remember a cute kid being in the first script."
"She's not," Alyssa Carter said, stepping out of the hotel room behind them. "You read the new proposed scripts?"