Winning Mars | Page 7

stop at the moon?"
"Yeah. That they did. But they said they'd go to Mars, and apparently a whole lot of Chinese still want to go to Mars. And Koreans. And Japanese. And even Americans." Evan pointed out separate spikes on the chart.
"Then why didn't they?"
Evan shrugged. "Cost. They just don't go for spending on a US-style scale. They don't have the tax base. Even using Russian tech, the missions woulda killed them."
"And it won't kill us?"
Evan held up a hand. "Patience, my friend. You know the budget numbers are always hidden in the back."
"So skip to the bottom line."
"No. Another reason is NASA. They're dead. Gutted. After the Twelve Days in May, all the money is going to Homeland Security. Everything's being folded into the new Oversight thing. And people know that's where it has to go, so the polls show 'em being OK with the Kevorking of the Mars flights. By the US, anyway. But they still want to do it. They might not bitch about the all-seeing eye, but underneath it all they have a pent-up need to see some great endeavor, not just utilitarian defense. It's the Frontier Factor."
"Never heard of it."
"Henry Kase. New pundit. Blames the lack of a Frontier Factor for most of the world's problems."
Data scrolled in Jere's eyepod, fast-ref video cap with contextual icons showing a balding little man, talking to sleepy rooms of unshaven and poorly-dressed people.
Evan winked. "Complete crap, of course, but it maps well on the audience we're looking at."
"Good. He doesn't look particularly convincing."
"He's not a charismatic. It's a real trend, real as 411. Put someone behind it who could work a crowd, and we'd nuke Russia so we could make it into our new frontier. Or go into space."
"Sounds stupid."
"Third reason, the Rabid Fan. That's real. You know it."
Jere nodded. Everyone dreamed of creating a new Star Trek, still in syndication after all these years, or a new Simpsons, a new show that made people dress up, go to conventions, meet in real life, found languages, change dictionaries.
"They'll think this is too game-show," Jere said.
"Yeah. But they'll watch, anyway. They'll bitch, they'll moan, but they'll watch. What else do they have? All the trekkies and scifi nuts and people who dream about getting out, getting away, people who hate their lives for real and imaginary reasons, they'll all watch, and they'll clamor for more. You don't have to take it from me. Look at the numbers."
Jere looked at the projection, peaky and perfect and tantalizing. If they could create something like that... he sat silent for a long time, thinking, dreaming, imagining himself at the forefront of a movement. Evan stayed still, like a statue, as if he was holding his breath.
"There are problems," Jere said finally.
"Of course."
"Death is still one. I'm less than confident we can get the whole idea past the risk-management sharks. And even if we do, and even if I can buy a platoon of lawyers to armor-plate our ass, but the shitstorm that follows may still take us down. Especially if all the actors kick it. As in Neteno is a goner. Done. Stick a fork in it."
Evan nodded. "I know, it's a stretch."
And his grin said, But you're really considering it, aren't you? I have you on the hook. You're actually running the objections through, as if it was a real proposition.
And, Jere realized, he was. Because the idea was... monumentally stupid, and ballsy, and dangerous, and it probably wouldn't work... but you didn't get ahead without ideas like that, you didn't revive an entire industry, you didn't pull a Neteno.
How realistic was this Evan guy? Who was he? Jere whispered commands into his throatmike and gasped at the inferred wealth and swarmstrength of the man who sat across from him. He was at least as big as his father.
A brief, acid surge of anger: Another fucking almighty, another parasite living off spoils from another age.
"You're asking me to risk my network? While you sit there comfortably, almighty, still living off the interest from a previous life?"
"I'm prepared to throw in."
Realistic and ballsy. And maybe the source of funds his father couldn't be.
"How much?"
Evan looked at him with those lead eyes. "Everything."
"It's never everything."
"I'll sign a personal guarantee."
Jere nodded. "What's the bottom line?"
Evan changed the slide. Jere gasped. The total was $1.1 billion. Even in the days of the inflationary dollar, that was ridiculous. Especially when you were buying something that had to earn itself out. And more. It wasn't real estate, where you could just pay forever. "You need funding like a first-run Interactive for a free-access linear."
"The cost is really quite low. The Russians have some new tech that will keep the cost way down. Hell, I remember seeing bottom-lines of thirty, forty times this for shoestring missions back when."
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