of Medicare bills, overseas adventurism, and decaying infrastructure, sheâs willing to use self-denial, entrapment, predatory mercantilism, dirty tricks, and any other tool that boosts the bottom line. She doesnât approve of Manfredâs jetting around the world on free airline passes,making strangers rich, somehow never needing money. She can see his listing on the reputation servers, hovering about thirty points above IBM: All the metrics of integrity, effectiveness, and goodwill value him above even that most fundamentalist of open-source computer companies. And she knows he craves her tough love, wants to give himself to her completely. So why is he running away?
The reason heâs running away is entirely more ordinary. Their unborn daughter, frozen in liquid nitrogen, is an unimplanted ninety-six-hour-old blastula. Pamâs bought into the whole Parents for Traditional Children parasite meme. PTC are germ-line recombination refuseniks: They refuse to have their children screened for fixable errors. If thereâs one thing that Manfred really canât cope with, itâs the idea that nature knows bestâeven though that isnât the point sheâs making. One steaming row too many, and he kicked back, off to traveling fast and footloose again, spinning off new ideas like a memetic dynamo and living on the largesse of the new paradigm. File for divorce on grounds of irreconcilable ideological differences. No more whiplash-and-leather sex.
Before he hits the TGV for Rome, Manfred takes time to visit a model airplane show. Itâs a good place to be picked up by a CIA stringerâheâs had a tip-off that someone will be thereâand besides, flying models are hot hacker shit this decade. Add microtechnology, cameras, and neural networks to balsa-wood flyers, and youâve got the next generation of military stealth flyer: Itâs a fertile talent-show scene, like the hacker cons of yore. This particular gig is happening in a decaying out-of-town supermarket that rents out its shop floor for events like this. Its emptiness is a sign of the times, ubiquitous broadband and expensive gas. (The robotized warehouse next door is, in contrast, frenetically busy, packing parcels for home delivery. Whether they telecommute or herd in meatspace offices, people still need to eat.)
Today, the food hall is full of people. Eldritch ersatz insects buzz menacingly along the shining empty meat counters without fear of electrocution. Big monitors unfurled above the deli display cabinets show a weird, jerky view of a three-dimensional nightmare, painted all the synthetic colors of radar. The feminine-hygiene galley has been wheeledback to make room for a gigantic plastic-shrouded tampon five meters long and sixty centimeters in diameterâa microsat launcher and conference display, plonked there by the showâs sponsors in a transparent attempt to talent-spot the up-and-coming engineering geeks.
Manfredâs glasses zoom in and grab a particularly fetching Fokker triplane that buzzes at face height through the crowd: He pipes the image stream up to one of his websites in real time. The Fokker pulls up in a tight Immelman turn beneath the dust-shrouded pneumatic cash tubes that line the ceiling, then picks up the trail of an F-104G. Cold War Luftwaffe and Great War Luftwaffe dart across the sky in an intricate game of tag. Manfredâs so busy tracking the warbirds that he nearly trips over the fat white tubeâs launcher-erector.
âEh, Manfred! More care, sâil vous plait! â
He wipes the planes and glances round. âDo I know you?â he asks politely, even as he feels a shock of recognition.
âAmsterdam, three years ago.â The woman in the double-breasted suit raises an eyebrow at him, and his social secretary remembers her for him, whispers in his ear.
âAnnette from Arianespace marketing?â She nods, and he focuses on her. Still dressing in the
The reason heâs running away is entirely more ordinary. Their unborn daughter, frozen in liquid nitrogen, is an unimplanted ninety-six-hour-old blastula. Pamâs bought into the whole Parents for Traditional Children parasite meme. PTC are germ-line recombination refuseniks: They refuse to have their children screened for fixable errors. If thereâs one thing that Manfred really canât cope with, itâs the idea that nature knows bestâeven though that isnât the point sheâs making. One steaming row too many, and he kicked back, off to traveling fast and footloose again, spinning off new ideas like a memetic dynamo and living on the largesse of the new paradigm. File for divorce on grounds of irreconcilable ideological differences. No more whiplash-and-leather sex.
Before he hits the TGV for Rome, Manfred takes time to visit a model airplane show. Itâs a good place to be picked up by a CIA stringerâheâs had a tip-off that someone will be thereâand besides, flying models are hot hacker shit this decade. Add microtechnology, cameras, and neural networks to balsa-wood flyers, and youâve got the next generation of military stealth flyer: Itâs a fertile talent-show scene, like the hacker cons of yore. This particular gig is happening in a decaying out-of-town supermarket that rents out its shop floor for events like this. Its emptiness is a sign of the times, ubiquitous broadband and expensive gas. (The robotized warehouse next door is, in contrast, frenetically busy, packing parcels for home delivery. Whether they telecommute or herd in meatspace offices, people still need to eat.)
Today, the food hall is full of people. Eldritch ersatz insects buzz menacingly along the shining empty meat counters without fear of electrocution. Big monitors unfurled above the deli display cabinets show a weird, jerky view of a three-dimensional nightmare, painted all the synthetic colors of radar. The feminine-hygiene galley has been wheeledback to make room for a gigantic plastic-shrouded tampon five meters long and sixty centimeters in diameterâa microsat launcher and conference display, plonked there by the showâs sponsors in a transparent attempt to talent-spot the up-and-coming engineering geeks.
Manfredâs glasses zoom in and grab a particularly fetching Fokker triplane that buzzes at face height through the crowd: He pipes the image stream up to one of his websites in real time. The Fokker pulls up in a tight Immelman turn beneath the dust-shrouded pneumatic cash tubes that line the ceiling, then picks up the trail of an F-104G. Cold War Luftwaffe and Great War Luftwaffe dart across the sky in an intricate game of tag. Manfredâs so busy tracking the warbirds that he nearly trips over the fat white tubeâs launcher-erector.
âEh, Manfred! More care, sâil vous plait! â
He wipes the planes and glances round. âDo I know you?â he asks politely, even as he feels a shock of recognition.
âAmsterdam, three years ago.â The woman in the double-breasted suit raises an eyebrow at him, and his social secretary remembers her for him, whispers in his ear.
âAnnette from Arianespace marketing?â She nods, and he focuses on her. Still dressing in the
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