Free Accelerando by Charles Stross Page B

and earpieces off his head so that he’s really naked, sits on his lap, and fucks his brains out again, and whispers in his ear that she loves him and wants to be his manager. Then she leads him into her bedroom and tells him exactly what she wants him to wear, and she puts on her own clothes, and she gives him a mirror with some white powder on it to sniff. When she’s got him dolled up they go out for a night of really serious clubbing, Annette in a tuxedo and Manfred in a blond wig, red silk off-the-shoulder gown, and high heels. Sometime in the early hours, exhausted and resting his head on her shoulder during the last tango in a BDSM club in the Rue Ste-Anne, he realizes that it really is possible to be in lust with someone other than Pamela.

    Aineko wakes Manfred by repeatedly head-butting him above the left eye. He groans and, as he tries to open his eyes, he finds that his mouth tastes like a dead trout, his skin feels greasy with makeup, and his head is pounding. There’s a banging noise somewhere. Aineko meows urgently. He sits up, feeling unaccustomed silk underwear rubbing against incredibly sore skin—he’s fully dressed, just sprawled out on the sofa. Snores emanate from the bedroom; the banging is coming from the front door. Someone wants to come in. Shit . He rubs his head, stands up, and nearly falls flat on his face: He hasn’t even taken those ridiculous high heels off. How much did I drink last night? he wonders. His glasses are on the breakfast bar; he pulls them on and is besieged by an urgent flurry of ideas demanding attention. He straightens his wig, picks up his skirts, and trips across to the door with a sinking feeling. Luckily, his publicly traded reputation is strictly technical.
    He unlocks the door. “Who is it?” he asks in English. By way of reply somebody shoves the door in, hard. Manfred falls back against the wall, winded. His glasses stop working, sidelook displays filling with multicolored static.
    Two men charge in, identically dressed in jeans and leather jackets. They’re wearing gloves and occlusive face masks, and one of thempoints a small and very menacing ID card at Manfred. A self-propelled gun hovers in the doorway, watching everything. “Where is he?”
    â€œWho?” gasps Manfred, breathless and terrified.
    â€œMacx.” The other intruder steps into the living room quickly, pans around, ducks through the bathroom door. Aineko flops as limp as a dishrag in front of the sofa. The intruder checks out the bedroom: There’s a brief scream, cut off short.
    â€œI don’t know—who?” Manfred is choking with fear.
    The other intruder ducks out of the bedroom, waves a hand dismissively.
    â€œWe are sorry to have bothered you,” the man with the card says stiffly. He replaced it in his jacket pocket. “If you should see Manfred Macx, tell him that the Copyright Control Association of America advises him to cease and desist from his attempt to assist music thieves and other degenerate mongrel secondhander enemies of Objectivism. Reputations only of use to those alive to own them. Goodbye.”
    The two copyright gangsters disappear through the door, leaving Manfred to shake his head dizzily while his glasses reboot. It takes him a moment to register the scream from the bedroom. “Fuck! Annette! ”
    She appears in the open doorway, holding a sheet around her waist, looking angry and confused. “Annette!” he calls. She looks around, sees him, and begins to laugh shakily. “Annette!” He crosses over to her. “You’re okay,” he says. “You’re okay.”
    â€œYou, too.” She hugs him, and she’s shaking. Then she holds him at arm’s length. “My, what a pretty picture!”
    â€œThey wanted me,” he says, and his teeth are chattering. “Why?”
    She looks up at him seriously. “You must bathe. Then have coffee. We are not at home,