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

Further down the arcade, the investors were waving their tokens over a trading
table, playing the instant futures market. An aerostat overhead mirrored the
gameplay, and as Lee-Daniel watched, MacDiarmid doubled his money on a
short-odds bet on two cherries and a lemon, then Earnshaw lost big when his
long-odds investment on uranium and coal came back with two windmills and a
photovoltaic array.

"Amen to that, bro," said Elaine, who ran the surveyors. She was all lean
muscle and blackfly repellent and mail-order outdoorwear, handily capable of
living off the land for weeks while trekking the bush, homing in on optimal
repeater locations. At the Akwesahsne Sovereign, she'd broken the hearts of a
half dozen starry-eyed Mohawk Warriors who'd puppydogged after her as she
shlepped the length and breadth of their territory, warchalking neon arrows to
indicate RF shadows cast by especially leafy trees and outcroppings of granite
Canadian Shield. That was before the S├╗ret├й du Qu├йbec arrived on the scene and
it all went pear shaped.

"It won't happen again," said Mortimer, the security man. Lee-Daniel had been
protecting the old dodderer from the board of directors, who saw him as an
insurance nightmare. Mortimer's hands shook, he was nightblind, and he was 98
years old, and there wasn't enough rejuve in the world to give him the mental
flexibility required by the modern age. Lee-Daniel had stripped him of his
sidearms, even the nonlethals, at the same time as he'd promoted Joey Riel.
Now Mortimer carried a loudhailer through which he could bark orders in his
old cop voice, the voice that made your asshole clench up and your shoulders
itch for a soon-come bullet.

The investors howled again, and the aerostat told them all that MacDiarmid had
cleaned up bigtime, paying out 100-to-1 on an investment in Shell Oil
collectibles -- two derricks and a shell. The Series A/Series B investors
crowded around him, giving him awe-struck backslaps. The other two might be
the fronts for gigafunds, but that was all they were: fronts. They were the
Voice of the Money while the company was on the road, junior associates who
needed to make a good score on their wanderjahr if they wanted to make
partner. Mac was solo money, a shrewd individual investor who'd acquired his
15-share in CogRad with no more investment than a year's worth of gas and
roadhouse meals while Lee-Daniel was getting the show on the road.

"The Mohawk Warriors are right: The rich get richer and the poor get
children," Joey Riel said, shaking his young head at the investors and the
board carrying MacDiarmid off to a private dining room for their dinner and
nightly board meeting.

"Those Mohawks got you all full of bolshy horseshit, didn't they?" Mortimer
said. The Mohawk Warrior Society talked a good anarcho-syndicalist line.

As far as most of CogRad's customers were concerned, tax-free packets were the
new tax-free cigarettes. The Mohawk Warriors on the Qu├йbec/New York border
were in it for the samizdata. They had big plans for their cognitive radio
network. They'd peered with two upstate New York networks and an Algerian