Eastern Standard Tribe

by Cory Doctorow

way out of a bloody supper of contraband,antisocial animal flesh were young, large and bristling with testosterone. Theywore killsport armor with strategic transparent panels that revealed theirsteroid-curdled muscles, visible through the likewise transparent insets they'dhad grafted in place of the skin that covered their abs and quads. There werethree of them, grinning and flexing, and they boxed in Art and Linda in thetiny, shuttered entrance of a Boots Pharmacy.

  "Evening, sir, evening, miss," one said.

  "Hey," Art muttered and looked over the yob's shoulder, trying to spot a secamor a cop. Neither was in sight.

  "I wonder if we could beg a favor of you?" another said.

  "Sure," Art said.

  "You're American, aren't you?" the third said.

  "Canadian, actually."

  "Marvelous. Bloody marvelous. I hear that Canada's a lovely place. How are youenjoying England?"

  "I live here, actually. I like it a lot."

  "Glad to hear that, sir. And you, Miss?"

  Linda was wide-eyed, halfway behind Art. "It's fine."

  "Good to hear," the first one said, grinning even more broadly. "Now, as to thatfavor. My friends and I, we've got a problem. We've grown bored of our wallets.They are dull and uninteresting."

  "And empty," the third one interjected, with a little, stoned giggle.

  "Oh yes, and empty. We thought, well, perhaps you visitors from abroad wouldfind them suitable souvenirs of England. We thought perhaps you'd like to trade,like?"

  Art smiled in spite of himself. He hadn't been mugged in London, but he'd heardof this. Ever since a pair of Manchester toughs had been acquitted based on theclaim that their robbery and menacing of a Pakistani couple had been a simplecross-cultural misunderstanding, crafty British yobs had been taking offincreasingly baroque scores from tourists.

  Art felt the familiar buzz that meant he was about to get into an argument, andbefore he knew it, he was talking: "Do you really think that'd hold up in court?I think that even the dimmest judge would be able to tell that the idea of aCanadian being mistaken about trading two wallets full of cash for three emptyones was in no way an error in cross-cultural communication. Really now. Ifyou're going to mug us --"

  "Mug you, sir? Dear oh dear, who's mugging you?" the first one said.

  "Well, in that case, you won't mind if we say no, right?"

  "Well, it would be rather rude," the first said. "After all, we're offering youa souvenir in the spirit of transatlantic solidarity. Genuine English leather,mine is. Belonged to my grandfather."

  "Let me see it," Art said.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "I want to see it. If we're going to trade, I should be able to examine thegoods first, right?"

  "All right, sir, all right, here you are."

  The wallet was tattered and leather, and it was indeed made in England, as thefrayed tag sewn into the billfold attested. Art turned it over in his hands,then, still smiling, emptied the card slot and started paging through the ID."Lester?"

  Lester swore under his breath. "Les, actually. Hand those over, please -- theydon't come with the wallet."

  "They don't? But surely a real British wallet is hardly complete without realBritish identification. Maybe I could keep the NHS card, something to showaround to Americans. They think socialized medicine is a fairy tale, you know."

  "I really must insist, sir."

  "Fuck it, Les," the second one said, reaching into his pocket. "This is stupid.Get the money, and let's push off."

  "It's not that easy any more, is it?" the third one said. "Fellow's got yourname, Les. 'Sbad."

  "Well, yes, of course I do," Art said. "But so what? You three are hardlynondescript. You think it'd be hard to pick your faces out of a rogues gallery?Oh, and wait a minute! Isn't this a trade? What happened to the spirit oftransatlantic solidarity?"

  "Right," Les said. "Don't matter if you've got my name, 'cos we're all friends,right, sir?"

  "Right!" Art said. He put the tattered wallet in his already bulging jacketpocket, making a great show of tamping it down so it wouldn't come loose. Oncehis hand was free, he extended it. "Art Berry. Late of Toronto. Pleased tomeetcha!"

  Les shook his hand. "I'm Les. These are my friends, Tony and Tom."

  "Fuck!" Tom, the second one, said. "Les, you stupid cunt! Now they got ournames, too!" The hand he'd put in his pocket came out, holding a tazer thatsparked and hummed. "Gotta get rid of 'em now."

  Art smiled, and reached very slowly into his pocket. He pulled out his comm,dislodging Les's wallet so that it fell to the street. Les, Tom and Tony staredat the glowing comm in his hand. "Could you repeat that, Tom? I don't think the999 operator heard you clearly."

  Tom stared dumbfounded at the comm, watching it as though it were a snake. Thenumbers "999" were clearly visible on its display, along with the position datathat pinpointed its location to the meter. Les turned abruptly and began walkingbriskly towards the tube station. In a moment, Tony followed, leaving Tom alone,the tazer still hissing and spitting. His face contorted with frustrated anger,and he feinted with the tazer, barking a laugh when Art and Linda cringed back,then he took off at a good run after his mates.

  Art clamped the comm to his head. "They've gone away," he announced, prideful."Did you get that exchange? There were three of them and they've gone away."

  From the comm came a tight, efficient voice, a male emergency operator. Thespeech was accented, and it took a moment to place it. Then Art remembered thatthe overnight emergency call-centers had been outsourced by the Englishgovernment to low-cost cube-farms in Manila. "Yes, Mr. Berry." His comm hadalready transmitted his name, immigration status and location, creating a degreeof customization more typical of fast-food delivery than governmentalbureaucracies. That was bad, Art thought, professionally. GMT polezeidom wasmeant to be a solid wall of oatmeal-thick bureaucracy, courtesy of some crafty,anonymous PDTalist. "Please, stay at your current location. The police will beon the scene shortly. Very well done, sir."

  Art turned to Linda, triumphant, ready for the traditional, postrhetoricalaccolades that witnesses of his verbal acrobatics were wont to dole out, andfound her in an attitude of abject terror. Her eyes were crazily wide, thewhites visible around the irises -- something he'd read about but never seenfirsthand. She was breathing shallowly and had gone ashen.

  Though they were not an actual couple yet, Art tried to gather her into his armsfor some manly comforting, but she was stiff in his embrace, and after a moment,planted her palms on his chest and pushed him back firmly, even aggressively.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. He was adrenalized, flushed.

  "*What if they'd decided to kill us*?" she said, spittle flying from her lips.

  "Oh, they weren't going to hurt us," he said. "No guts at all."

  "God*dammit*, you didn't know that! Where do you get off playing around with*my* safety? Why the hell didn't you just hand over your wallet, call the copsand be done with it? Macho fucking horseshit!"

  The triumph was fading, fast replaced by anger. "What's wrong with you? Do youalways have to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory? I just beat off thosethree assholes without raising a hand, and all you want to do is criticize?Christ, OK, next time we can hand over our wallets. Maybe they'll want a littlerape, too -- should I go along with that? You just tell me what the rules are,and I'll be sure and obey them."

  "You fucking *pig*! Where the fuck do you get off raising your voice to me? Anddon't you *ever* joke about rape. It's not even slightly funny, you arrogantfucking prick."

  Art's triumph deflated. "Jesus," he said, "Jesus, Linda, I'm sorry. I didn'trealize how scared you must have been --"

  "You don't know what you're talking about. I've been mugged a dozen times. Ihand over my wallet, cancel my cards, go to my insurer. No one's ever hurt me. Iwasn't the least bit scared until you opened up your big goddamned mouth."

  "Sorry, sorry. Sorry about the rape crack. I was just trying to make a point. Ididn't know --" He wanted to say, *I didn'
t know you'd been raped*, but thoughtbetter of it -- "it was so...*personal* for you --"

  "Oh, Christ. Just because I don't want to joke about rape, you think I'm somekind of *victim*, that *I've* been raped" -- Art grimaced -- "well, I haven't,shithead. But it's not something you should be using as a goddamned example inone of your stupid points. Rape