Eastern Standard Tribe by Cory Doctorow (best reads .txt) 📕

again?"
Linda said, finally.

*Gotcha*, Art thought. "Well, I know that'd be the *sensible* thing, but my
Gran, I dunno, she really wants me to do this. It'd make her so happy."

"I dunno -- my ex might cut it up or something."

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't do that. I could just schedule the delivery for after
you arrive, that way you can sign for it. What do you think?"

"I really don't think --"

"Come on, Linda, I know it's nuts, but it's my Gran. She *really* likes you."

Linda sighed. "Let me comm you the address, OK?"

"Thanks, Linda," Art said, watching the address in Van Nuys scroll onto his
comm's screen. "Thanks a bunch. Have a great trip -- don't let your ex get you
down."

Now, armed with Linda's fucking ex's name, Art went to work. He told Gran he had
some administrative chores to catch up on for an hour or two, promised to have
supper with her and Father Ferlenghetti that night, and went out onto the
condo's sundeck with his keyboard velcroed to his thigh.

Trepan: Hey!

Colonelonic: Trepan! Hey, what's up? I hear you're back on the East Coast!

Trepan: True enough. Back in Toronto. How's things with you?

Colonelonic: Same as ever. Trying to quit the dayjob.

Trepan: /private Colonelonic Are you still working at Merril-Lynch?

## Colonelonic (private): Yeah.

Trepan: /private Colonelonic Still got access to Lexus-Nexus?

## Colonelonic (private): Sure -- but they're on our asses about abusing the
accounts. Every search is logged and has to be accounted for.

Trepan: /private Colonelonic Can you get me background on just one guy?

## Colonelonic (private): Who is he? Why?

Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's stupid. I think that someone I know is about
to go into biz with him, and I don't trust him. I'm probably just being
paranoid, but...

## Colonelonic (private): I don't know, man. Is it really important?

Trepan: /private Colonelonic Oh, crap, look. It's my girlfriend. I think she's
screwing this guy. I just wanna get an idea of who he is, what he does, you
know.

## Colonelonic (private): Heh. That sucks. OK -- check back in a couple hours.
There's a guy across the hall who never logs out of his box when he goes to
lunch. I'll sneak in there and look it up on his machine.

Trepan: /private Colonelonic Kick ass. Thanks.

##Transferring addressbook entry "Toby Ginsburg" to Colonelonic. Receipt
confirmed.

Trepan: /private Colonelonic Thanks again!

## Colonelonic (private): Check in with me later -- I'll have something for you
then.

Art logged off, flushed with triumph. Whatever Fede and Linda were cooking up,
he'd get wise to it and then he'd nail 'em. What the hell was it, though?

23.

My cousins visited me a week after I arrived at the nuthouse. I'd never been
very close to them, and certainly our relationship had hardly blossomed during
the week I spent in Toronto, trying to track down Linda and Fede's plot.

I have two cousins. They're my father's sister's kids, and I didn't even meet
them until I was about twenty and tracking down my family history. They're
Ottawa Valley kids, raised on government-town pork, aging hippie muesli, and
country-style corn pone. It's a weird mix, and we've never had a conversation
that I would consider a success. Ever met a violent, aggressive hippie with an
intimate knowledge of whose genitals one must masticate in order to get a
building permit or to make a pot bust vanish? It ain't pretty.

Cousin the first is Audie. She's a year older than me, and she's the smart one
on that side of the family, the one who ended up at Queen's University for a BS
in Electrical Engineering and an MA in Poli Sci, and even so finished up back in
Ottawa, freelancing advice to clueless MPs dealing with Taiwanese and Sierra
Leonese OEM importers. Audie's married to a nice fella whose name I can never
remember and they're gonna have kids in five years; it's on a timetable that she
actually showed me once when I went out there on biz and stopped in to see her
at the office.

Cousin the second is Alphie -- three years younger than me, raised in the shadow
of his overachieving sister, he was the capo of Ottawa Valley script kiddies, a
low-rent hacker who downloaded other people's code for defeating copyright
use-control systems and made a little biz for himself bootlegging games, porn,
music and video, until the WIPO bots found him through traffic analysis and
busted his ass, bankrupting him and landing him in the clink for sixty days.

Audie and Alfie are blond and ruddy and a little heavyset, all characteristics
they got from their father's side, so add that to the fact that I grew up
without being aware of their existence and you'll understand the absence of any
real fellow-feeling for them. I don't dislike them, but I have so little in
common with them that it's like hanging out with time travelers from the
least-interesting historical era imaginable.

But they came to Boston and looked me up in the nuthatch.

They found me sitting on the sofa in the ward, post-Group, arms and ankles
crossed, dozing in a shaft of sunlight. It was my habitual napping spot, and I
found that a nap between Group and dinner was a good way to sharpen my appetite
and anasthetize my taste buds, which made the mealtime slop bearable.

Audie shook my shoulder gently. I assumed at first that she was one of the
inmates trying to get me involved in a game of Martian narco-checkers, so I
brushed her hand away.

"They've probably got him all doped up," Audie said. The voice was familiar and
unplaceable and so I cracked my eyelid, squinting up at her silhouette in the
afternoon sun. "There he is," she said. "Come on, up and at 'em, tiger."

I sat up abruptly and scrubbed at my eyes. "Audie?" I asked.

"Yup. And Alphie." Alphie's pink face hove into view.

"Hi, Art," he mumbled.

"Jesus," I said, getting to my feet. Audie put out a superfluous steadying hand.
"Wow."

"Surprised?" Audie said.

"Yeah!" I said. Audie thrust a bouquet of flowers into my arms. "What are you
doing here?"

"Oh, your grandmother told me you were here. I was coming down to Boston for
work anyway, so I flew in a day early so I could drop in. Alphie came down with
me -- he's my assistant now."

I almost said something about convicted felons working for government
contractors, but I held onto my tongue. Consequently, an awkward silence
blossomed.

"Well," Audie said, at last. "Well! Let's have a look at you, then." She
actually took a lap around me, looking me up and down, making little noises.
"You look all right, Art. Maybe a little skinny, even. Alphie's got a box of
cookies for you." Alphie stepped forward and produced the box, a family pack of
President's Choice Ridiculous Chocoholic Extra Chewies, a Canadian store brand
I'd been raised on. Within seconds of seeing them, my mouth was sloshing with
saliva.

"It's good to see you, Audie, Alphie." I managed to say it without spitting, an
impressive feat, given the amount of saliva I was contending with. "Thanks for
the care package."

We stared at each other blankly.

"So, Art," Alphie said, "So! How do you like it here?"

"Well, Alphie," I said. "I can't say as I do, really. As far as I can tell, I'm
sane as I've ever been. It's just a bunch of unfortunate coincidences and bad
judgment that got me here." I refrain from mentioning Alphie's propensity for
lapses in judgment.

"Wow," Alphie said. "That's a bummer. We should do something, you know, Audie?"

"Not really my area of expertise," Audie said in clipped tones. "I would if I
could, you know that, right Art? We're family, after all."

"Oh, sure," I say magnanimously. But now that I'm looking at them, my cousins
who got into a thousand times more trouble than I ever did, driving drunk,
pirating software, growing naughty smokables in the backyard, and got away from
it unscathed, I feel a stirring of desperate hope. "Only..."

"Only what?" Alphie said.

"Only, maybe, Audie, do you think you could, that is, if you've got the time, do
you think you could have a little look around and see if any of your contacts
could maybe set me up with a decent lawyer who might be able to get my case
reheard? Or a shrink, for that matter? Something? 'Cause frankly it doesn't
really seem like they're going to let me go, ever. Ever."

Audie squirmed and glared at her brother. "I don't really know anyone that fits
the bill," she said at last.

"Well, not *firsthand,* sure, why would you? You wouldn't." I thought that I was
starting to babble, but I couldn't help myself. "You wouldn't. But maybe there's
someone that someone you know knows who can do something about it? I mean, it
can't hurt to ask around, can it?"

"I suppose it can't," she said.

"Wow," I said, "that would just be fantastic, you know. Thanks in advance,
Audie, really, I mean it, just for trying, I can't thank you enough. This place,
well, it really sucks."

There it was, hanging out, my desperate and pathetic plea for help. Really,
there was nowhere to go but down from there. Still, the silence stretched and
snapped and I said, "Hey, speaking of, can I offer you guys a tour of the ward?
I mean, it's not much, but it's home."

So I showed them: the droolers and the fondlers and the pukers and my horrible
little room and the scarred ping-pong table and the sticky decks of cards and
the meshed-in TV. Alphie actually seemed to dig it, in a kind of horrified way.
He started comparing it to the new Kingston Pen, where he'd done his six-month
bit. After seeing the first puker, Audie went quiet and thin-lipped, leaving
nothing but Alphie's enthusiastic gurgling as counterpoint to my tour.

"Art," Audie said finally, desperately, "do you think they'd let us take you out
for a cup of coffee or a walk around the grounds?"

I asked. The nurse looked at a comm for a while, then shook her head.

"Nope," I reported. "They need a day's notice of off-ward supervised
excursions."

"Well, too bad," Audie said. I understood her strategy immediately. "Too bad.
Nothing for it, then. Guess we should get back to our hotel." I planted a dry
kiss on her cheek, shook Alphie's sweaty hand, and they were gone. I skipped
supper that night and ate cookies until I couldn't eat another bite of rich
chocolate.

#

"Got a comm?" I ask Doc Szandor, casually.

"What for?"

"Wanna get some of this down. The ideas for the hospital. Before I go back out
on the ward." And it *is* what I want to do, mostly. But the temptation to just
log on and do my thing -- oh!

"Sure," he says, checking his watch. "I can probably stall them for a couple
hours more. Feel free to make a call or whatever, too."

Doc Szandor's a good egg.

24.

Father Ferlenghetti showed up at Art's Gran's at 7PM, just as the sun began to
set over the lake, and Art and he shared lemonade on Gran's sunporch and watched
as the waves on Lake Ontario turned harshly golden.