happened to my father. It’s not happening to me. That’s why Cheyenne is so important, Hayden. It’s fresh. It’s new. It’s alive. It’s the most important project I’ve got going.”
For most men, an undertaking like Cheyenne would be the biggest thing in their lives. For Aaron, it was a “project.” Hayden found himself looking around the room. Aaron’s soothing voice floated in and out. Langhorn — the chicken man — cackled with someone in the corner. Chris Babcock – the survivor — had that schizophrenic look of confidence and fear that people get when they know they’ve squeaked by. Mason – the ambassador — pondered another canvas.
Important people were about, but for a fleeting moment there was an absence of mystique. It was a canvas of smiles and handshakes and backslapping that always seemed to look good in the right kind of lighting, regardless of the decade. But it was also as if a camera shutter had opened and closed in a split second, and in that second Hayden could see every blemish, every look of fear out of the corner of the eyes of the confident, every desperate attempt to recreate the blip of unprecedented prosperity the world was unlikely to ever see again. Hayden wondered how it would all look tomorrow without the halogen glow. Aaron’s world was larger than life. Part of Hayden wanted to shun it, but he couldn’t help but embrace it.
“I better get going,” Hayden said.
“So soon?” Aaron said. “You disappoint me.”
“I have an early morning. I’ve gotta make you look good, Aaron.”
“Good man. Have Orthanel show you to your guest room. I’ll see you for breakfast.”
Hayden made his way toward the door. Before he left, he turned to have one last look around the room. He noticed Aaron catch the eye of Vaughn, who was chatting in the corner with a nubile blonde – one of the handful of modeling agency girls that Aaron regularly flew out from New York to beautify his parties. Aaron motioned for Vaughn to follow him into a wood-paneled side room.
What’s that all about? Hayden wondered. Aaron caught Hayden’s eye and winked as he and Terry Vaughn went into the side room. The door closed slowly.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the mid-1990s, undersea cables could transmit about two million simultaneous telephone calls across the Atlantic and about 500,000 calls across the Pacific. By 2000, an 80 Gbps cable installed between the U.S. and China provided more capacity than all of the trans-oceanic cables installed since the first telegraph cable was laid across the Atlantic in 1858. Worldwide
demand for bandwidth had well exceeded 700,000 terabits per day — well more than 120 billion books, or more than everything that mankind has ever written. Yet about half of all US home Internet users were still dialing up with narrowband connections (56Kbps or less), putting the U.S. a generation behind Japan and Korea in highspeed broadband adoption.
At Cheyenne’s headquarters, Timmermans, Michelle, and Peter were very different now than they were before the London and New York trips. They could not believe how well the events had gone. Confidence was high.
After years of bandwidth glut, capacity and demand were beginning to measure out. And, with upgrade costs prompting some of the early bandwidth players to give up once and for all, Cheyenne’s STS technology, which would deliver information directly to homes and businesses through the water system, had a leapfrogging advantage. The promise remained intoxicating.
And Timmermans, Michelle and Peter were getting rich, at least on paper. Timmermans was rich enough to buy a new Mercedes. Michelle was rich enough to purchase new houses for her parents and her sister, who had never gotten her act together. Peter was rich enough to buy whatever he wanted, and yet he couldn’t decide what he wanted, so he bought season tickets to FC Groningen games for most of his friends. In European technology circles, Peter had become a bit of a
For most men, an undertaking like Cheyenne would be the biggest thing in their lives. For Aaron, it was a “project.” Hayden found himself looking around the room. Aaron’s soothing voice floated in and out. Langhorn — the chicken man — cackled with someone in the corner. Chris Babcock – the survivor — had that schizophrenic look of confidence and fear that people get when they know they’ve squeaked by. Mason – the ambassador — pondered another canvas.
Important people were about, but for a fleeting moment there was an absence of mystique. It was a canvas of smiles and handshakes and backslapping that always seemed to look good in the right kind of lighting, regardless of the decade. But it was also as if a camera shutter had opened and closed in a split second, and in that second Hayden could see every blemish, every look of fear out of the corner of the eyes of the confident, every desperate attempt to recreate the blip of unprecedented prosperity the world was unlikely to ever see again. Hayden wondered how it would all look tomorrow without the halogen glow. Aaron’s world was larger than life. Part of Hayden wanted to shun it, but he couldn’t help but embrace it.
“I better get going,” Hayden said.
“So soon?” Aaron said. “You disappoint me.”
“I have an early morning. I’ve gotta make you look good, Aaron.”
“Good man. Have Orthanel show you to your guest room. I’ll see you for breakfast.”
Hayden made his way toward the door. Before he left, he turned to have one last look around the room. He noticed Aaron catch the eye of Vaughn, who was chatting in the corner with a nubile blonde – one of the handful of modeling agency girls that Aaron regularly flew out from New York to beautify his parties. Aaron motioned for Vaughn to follow him into a wood-paneled side room.
What’s that all about? Hayden wondered. Aaron caught Hayden’s eye and winked as he and Terry Vaughn went into the side room. The door closed slowly.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the mid-1990s, undersea cables could transmit about two million simultaneous telephone calls across the Atlantic and about 500,000 calls across the Pacific. By 2000, an 80 Gbps cable installed between the U.S. and China provided more capacity than all of the trans-oceanic cables installed since the first telegraph cable was laid across the Atlantic in 1858. Worldwide
demand for bandwidth had well exceeded 700,000 terabits per day — well more than 120 billion books, or more than everything that mankind has ever written. Yet about half of all US home Internet users were still dialing up with narrowband connections (56Kbps or less), putting the U.S. a generation behind Japan and Korea in highspeed broadband adoption.
At Cheyenne’s headquarters, Timmermans, Michelle, and Peter were very different now than they were before the London and New York trips. They could not believe how well the events had gone. Confidence was high.
After years of bandwidth glut, capacity and demand were beginning to measure out. And, with upgrade costs prompting some of the early bandwidth players to give up once and for all, Cheyenne’s STS technology, which would deliver information directly to homes and businesses through the water system, had a leapfrogging advantage. The promise remained intoxicating.
And Timmermans, Michelle and Peter were getting rich, at least on paper. Timmermans was rich enough to buy a new Mercedes. Michelle was rich enough to purchase new houses for her parents and her sister, who had never gotten her act together. Peter was rich enough to buy whatever he wanted, and yet he couldn’t decide what he wanted, so he bought season tickets to FC Groningen games for most of his friends. In European technology circles, Peter had become a bit of a
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