Accelerando | Page 5

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?"
"Be 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."
"Sure." 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.
"Yes, 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."
"Hmm." 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 us diversify into submarine reactor engineering,
microgravity nanotechnology fabrication, and hotel management." Her face is a
well-polished mask as she recites the company line, but he can sense the sardonic
amusement behind it as she adds: "We are more flexible than the American space
industry ..."
Manfred shrugs. "That's as may be." He sips his Berlinerweisse slowly as she launches
into a long, stilted explanation of how Arianespace is a diversified dot-com with orbital
aspirations, a full range of merchandising spin-offs, Bond movie sets, and a promising
hotel chain in LEO. She obviously didn't come up with these talking points herself. Her
face is much more expressive than her voice as she mimes boredom and disbelief at
appropriate moments - an out-of-band signal invisible to her corporate earrings. Manfred
plays along, nodding occasionally, trying to look as if he's taking it seriously: Her droll
subversion has got his attention far more effectively than the content of the marketing
pitch. Franklin is nose down in his beer, shoulders shaking as he tries not to guffaw at the
hand gestures she uses to express her opinion of her employer's thrusting, entrepreneurial
executives. Actually, the talking points bullshit is right about one thing: Arianespace is
still profitable, due to those hotels and orbital holiday hops. Unlike LockMartBoeing,
who'd go Chapter Eleven in a split second if their Pentagon drip-feed ran dry.
Someone else sidles up to the table; a pudgy guy in outrageously loud Hawaiian shirt
with pens leaking in a breast pocket and the worst case of ozone-hole burn Manfred's
seen in ages. "Hi, Bob," says the new arrival. "How's life?"
"'S good." Franklin nodes at Manfred; "Manfred, meet Ivan MacDonald. Ivan, Manfred.
Have a seat?" He leans over. "Ivan's a public arts guy. He's heavily into extreme
concrete."
"Rubberized concrete," Ivan says, slightly too loudly. "Pink rubberized concrete."
"Ah!" He's somehow triggered a priority interrupt: Annette from Arianespace drops out
of marketing zombiehood with a shudder of relief and, duty discharged, reverts to her non
corporate identity: