"Stross, Charles - The Midlist Bombers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

The Midlist Bombers
Charles Stross

T minus 19 days 8:23 a.m.
For Nigel Frogland, the apocalypse started with a letter.
He stumbled downstairs towards kitchen and coffee percolator, pausing by the door to yawn widely and grab the daily influx of bills and overdrawn bank statements from the letter box. This was an autonomic reflex, as vital to the author as flapping its wings was to a headless chicken; he blinked sleepily at the three envelopes in his hand before staggering into the kitchen to wait for the kettle. Two bills, he thought, but what's this? Looks like it's from Victoria ... he reached for the bread-knife. Letters from Victoria Bergdorf, his editor, were always worth reading no matter which side they were buttered on.
But he was in for a surprise.

Dear Nigel,
As you are aware, we at Schnickel and Bergdorf have prided ourselves for fifty years on our commitment to fundamental literary values, providing the best service possible to the public and our authors. This is a tradition which we are Ц we think justifiably Ц proud of, and intend to continue for the forseeable future.
However, given the recent changes that have taken place in the genre market, specifically the contraction of the midlist under the financial pressure of competing in a modern, thrusting business environment, we have found it necessary to enter a temporary phase of retrenchment. Specifically, the directors have approved the sale of a controlling shareholding in this company to the multinational holding corporation Spart-Dibbler PLC. Pending the resolution of this takeover, we will be unable to commission any more projects from you. This transition period should last for approximately six months; thereafter we will resume buying as usual.
Yours sincerely ...

Oh shit! pondered Dave, his stomach churning unpleasantly as he pondered the likely consequences. What if I have to ask for my old job back ...?

t minus 19 days 10:14 a.m.
"They're going to what?" demanded Victoria Bergdorf.
Jonathan Smiddler yawned widely, displaying a coffee-stained tongue. "They're going to drop half the list," he repeated tiredly. "They figure if they can put the money together and get one best-seller, it pays better than the whole lot of them. I mean, why not?" He yawned again, looking decidedly hollow-eyed; a common feature to all the survivors of the take-over.
Victoria leaned forward across her desk. "I never thought the bastards had the guts," she hissed. "Jesus Christ on a crutch Ц they're going to put all our writers on the street! They can't be serious!"
Jonathan leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "But they are. Blame the accounts department Ц there's more profit in one best-seller than in a dozen small titles. People don't read any more, or they read what they see advertised on television, right? Jeffrey Archer, Isaac Asimov. We're competing with other media, Victoria, that's what Spart-Dibbler's accountants are on about. And if we can't make as much profit as satellite television, we're gonna get it in the neck."
Victoria shook her head. "I've been in this trade for twenty years," she said; "and my father before me for thirty more ..." Jonathan leaned back tiredly.
"So have I," he reminded her. "That's why you put me in charge of the horror list, isn't it? Look, if the cash-flow had been any better ... "
"It's no good," she said, gazing at the wall of books behind him; the wall of novels she had personally brought to market, making her personal impact on the history of English literature ... "we can't live on maybes. We've got to do something! There must be some way we can increase our readership to the point where we won't have to drop the small guys! Why else did we accept the buy-out offer? We needed capital to get out of the cash-flow crunch, but I'm damned if I'm going to let them throw out the baby to make room for the dirty bathwater!"
Jonathan gulped down a last mouthful of lukewarm coffee. "There might be a way," he said, "if you apply lateral thinking to the problem. I mean we're one of the foremost genre publishers left in the market, aren't we? And people will read our stuff Ц or they would, if they weren't watching EastEnders and Dallasty instead. So we've Ц " he gestured broadly, his shirt bulging Ц "we've got to recapture the market. We've got capital; so why not use it? We can maximize our readership without selling out or buying cruddy hackwork. There's got to be a way to apply leverage ..."
Victoria looked back at him, her eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"I'd have thought it's simple," he said, "once you begin to think the unthinkable. Our problem is that we've got too much competition. So ... " he shrugged, pausing for effect; it was a shame that the gesture could best be described as a cringe.
"So what?" she asked, irritated.
"We put a bomb behind the mid-list," he said, smirking at his own cleverness. "I've been talking to some of the boys, and it looks like there might be an alternate option. I mean, our SF types used to do some interesting things before they went full-time, didn't they? You remember what Dave Frogland used to do for a living before he came to us? I've got an idea for a special promotion we can sell to the accountants. And you want to know something else? It's original."

t minus 18 days 1:13 a.m.
For Lydia Little the apocalypse began with a phone call.
She was sitting at her desk polishing her glasses, wondering if she could afford to buy a new word processor to replace her geriatric Amstrad, when the phone rang. Cursing softly at being called back from avoiding her current master-work Ц a softly chilling tale of childhood terror and adult neuroses Ц she scrambled down the rickety staircase and made for the phone. "Yes?" she demanded; "who is it?"
"It's me, Lydia," said the voice at the other end. Instantly her attitude softened, for the voice belonged to none other than Sonia Black, her agent. "How are you?"
"I'm, uh, fine," said Lydia, taking stock. "Novel's coming along, uh, okay ... and you?"
"I'm Ц okay, I guess." Sonia gave a short laugh and Lydia instantly tensed herself for bad news. "I'm ringing about Victoria Bergdorf, I'm afraid. You heard about the take-over?"
"Oh shit," muttered Lydia. More loudly; "yes, I have. What about it?"
"Well," Sonia said, obviously prevaricating; "it's about the input from Spart-Dibbler, the purchasers. They're re-assessing the Schnickel and Bergdorf lists for commercial prospects, and ... " her voice dropped an octave ... "frankly, they're not nice. They're vetting their authors with the aid of the Economic League Ц you know, for subversion potential and profit allergies Ц and I don't know if they're still going to want your stuff afterwards. I mean, hauntingly delicate tales of fantasy or horror from a strongly feminist, left-wing American emigre writer are not quite what the best-seller list is made of, so Ц"
"You mean I'm fucked," said Lydia matter-of-factly.
"Well, not quite. There's always the small press, and with your connections Ц I mean after your time in Morocco Ц you've got quite a substantial translation market among radical feminist circles in the Middle East Ц "
" Ц Where they aren't parties to any of the international copyright agreements," Lydia interrupted. "Look, Sonia, I know this is not going to do you a world of good either, but do you realise what this means for me?" She paused to shift her grip on the mouthpiece, hands shaking with pent-up tension. "This is the end! We've got to do something or it'll be the death of literature as we know it!"
There was a long silence at the other end of the line, then Sonia cleared her throat. "Uh, there is one thing you could do," she suggested. "Now, I've heard rumours ... and I don't want to be involved. But apparently Johnny Smiddler has got some kind of scheme he needs help with, some kind of book-promotion exercise. He's trying to get funding from the Spart-Dibbler accountants right now, and if it works, he's going to need someone to go to Morocco. Buying an unusual commodity, as it were, strictly sub rosa. I'm sure he'd be willing to pay your expenses, and if it works things are going to look very good for you, very good indeed." Something in her tone warned Lydia that she wasn't being entirely candid, but she realised she didn't care; it was her world that Spart-Dibbler were threatening to deconstruct, and she suddenly knew that she was willing to do anything ... even commit acts of premeditated hackwork ... in order to hold it together.
"Come on, Sonia," she said; "what is it? Why won't you tell me?"
Sonia cleared her throat again. "Uh ... I don't think it's wise to talk on the phone," she said. "You'd better have lunch with Jonathan Ц I'm sure he'd be very interested if you give him a bell this morning, he'll fill you in on what it is he needs."
"Uh, okay, I'll do that," Lydia said. "Thanks for the tip."
"Oh, and one other thing, Lydia."
"Yes?"
"I'd forget that new word processor for a while. In fact, I think it would be a good idea if you bought the heaviest manual typewriter you can find. If Johnny's idea comes off, that would be a very good idea. Because there won't be any more word processors for a while ... "

t minus 17 days 1:32 a.m.
The accountants, thought Jonathan, were grey and colourless; but there was nothing mousy about them. Rather, they resembled menacing gun-metal sharks, smoothly polished engines of corporate destruction wrapped in pin-striped suits and white shirts and filofaxes, armoured in spectacles and ignorance as they prepared to dismember the mortally injured remains of the once proud heraldic beast of publishing.