"Cory Doctorow - Liberation Spectrum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dodd Christina)

that smelled of sandalwood soap and good liquor. "Yeah, of course, of course."

"Thanks, Mac," Lee-Daniel said. "How about we get some eats?" He put his hand
on the geometry reader beside the wheel, re- authenticated to the bus, then
hit the hatches. Doors hissed open at the back, at the front, at the middle,
fresh dusty air rushing in all at once in an ear-popping whoosh. The bus knelt
ponderously and the company piled out.

MacDiarmid hustled away to join the rest of the investors, his exquisite
handmade leather shoes slapping the paving, the cuffs of his wool tailor-made
slacks shushing over their gleaming uppers, and as Lee-Daniel locked the bus
down and armed it up, he watched the angel investor whisper in his
co-shareholders' ears. Lee-Daniel couldn't hear the words, but six years at
the wheel of Cognitive Radio Inc. had schooled him well in the body language
of investors and he knew his days with CogRad were numbered. The roadhouse was
the kind of TAZ that got less entertaining by the second. Lee-Daniel stood in
the blinking vegaslights for an eternity while he authenticated to the
roadhouse-area-network, surrounded by generic ads while the giant vending
machine figured out who he was and what to sell him. Once the wall spat out
his token -- poker chips adorned with grinning, dancing anthropomorphic
dollar, euro and yen symbols -- the walls around him leapt to delighted life,
pitching their wares hard. He struggled with the rest of the corporation to
make out the actual nature of the products behind the pitch and locate a
tuna-melt and wave his chip at it.

The sandwich appeared in a slot by his feet and when he bent to fetch it, he
was bombarded with upsell ads set into the floor tiles: "Lee-Daniel! People
who bought tuna-melts also bought thousand-hour power cells. People who bought
OralCare mouth kits also bought MyGuts brand edible oscopycams. People who
bought banana-melatonin rice-shakes also bought tailormade sailcloth shirts by
Figaro's of London and Rangoon."

It only got worse then, as he sat down at a crowded table with middle managers
in need of reassurance, while swatting away the buzzing aerostats that
probabalistically routed towards those diners with the highest credit ratings,
delivering pitches whose tone and content had been honed by genetic algorithms
that sharpened them to maximal intrusiveness and intriguingness. It took
vicious, darwinian computation to make a high colonic sound like an afternoon
at a spa.

"No one else will say it," said Joey Riel, a 17-year-old Metis whose fluency
in English, French and Ojibwa had made him the youngest middle manager in
CogRad history, eight months before. "So I will. That was fucked up. Too
fucked up."

His griping had been constant since his promotion up from antennaman and
getting caught between the Mohawk Warriors' plan to seize the radio spectrum
on their territory and the trigger-happy Provincial cops had only intensified
it.