Accelerando Read Free

precursors in this shit, phenylalanine and glutamate.”
    â€œBut I thought that was a beer you were ordering . . .”
    Manfred’s away, one hand resting on the smooth brass pipe that funnels the more popular draught items in from the cask storage in back; one of the hipper floaters has planted a contact bug on it, and the vCards of all the personal network owners who’ve visited the bar in the past three hours are queuing up for attention. The air is full of ultrawideband chatter, WiMAX and ’tooth both, as he speed-scrolls through the dizzying list of cached keys in search of one particular name.
    â€œYour drink.” The barman holds out an improbable-looking goblet full of blue liquid with a cap of melting foam and a felching straw stuck out at some crazy angle. Manfred takes it and heads for the back of the split-level bar, up the steps to a table where some guy with greasy dreadlocks is talking to a suit from Paris. The hanger-on at the bar notices him for the first time, staring with suddenly wide eyes: He nearly spills his Coke in a mad rush for the door.
    Oh shit, thinks Manfred, better buy some more server time . He can recognize the signs: He’s about to be slashdotted. He gestures at the table. “This one taken?”
    â€œBe my guest,” says the guy with the dreads. Manfred slides the chair open then realizes that the other guy—immaculate double-breasted Suit, sober tie, crew cut—is a girl. She nods at him, half-smiling at his transparent double take. Mr. Dreadlock nods. “You’re Macx? I figured it was about time we met.”
    â€œSure.” Manfred holds out a hand, and they shake. His PDA discreetly swaps digital fingerprints, confirming that the hand belongs to Bob Franklin, a Research Triangle startup monkey with a VC track record, lately moving into micromachining and space technology.Franklin made his first million two decades ago, and now he’s a specialist in extropian investment fields. Operating exclusively overseas these past five years, ever since the IRS got medieval about trying to suture the sucking chest wound of the federal budget deficit. Manfred has known him for nearly a decade via a closed mailing list, but this is the first time they’ve ever met face-to-face. The Suit silently slides a business card across the table; a little red devil brandishes a trident at him, flames jetting up around its feet. He takes the card, raises an eyebrow: “Annette Dimarcos? I’m pleased to meet you. Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone from Arianespace marketing before.”
    She smiles warmly. “That is all right. I have not the pleasure of meeting the famous venture altruist either.” Her accent is noticeably Parisian, a pointed reminder that she’s making a concession to him just by talking. Her camera earrings watch him curiously, encoding everything for the company memory. She’s a genuine new European, unlike most of the American exiles cluttering up the bar.
    â€œYes, well.” He nods cautiously, unsure how to deal with her. “Bob. I assume you’re in on this ball?”
    Franklin nods; beads clatter. “Yeah, man. Ever since the Teledesic smash it’s been, well, waiting. If you’ve got something for us, we’re game.”
    â€œHmm.” The Teledesic satellite cluster was killed by cheap balloons and slightly less cheap high-altitude, solar-powered drones with spread-spectrum laser relays: It marked the beginning of a serious recession in the satellite biz. “The depression’s got to end sometime: But”—a nod to Annette from Paris—“with all due respect, I don’t think the break will involve one of the existing club carriers.”
    She shrugs. “Arianespace is forward-looking. We face reality. The launch cartel cannot stand. Bandwidth is not the only market force in space. We must explore new opportunities. I personally have helped