Eastern Standard Tribe

Art shook water off his face and blew a mist from his dripping moustache. 'Sorry,' he said, weakly. She had an American accent, Californian maybe, a litigious stridency that tightened his sphincter like an alum enema and miraculously flensed him of the impulse to argue.

'Sorry?' she said, as the porters lowered her gently to the narrow strip turf out beside the sidewalk. 'Sorry? Jesus, is that the best you can do?'

'Well you did step out in front of my car,' he said, trying to marshal some spine.

She attempted to sit up, then slumped back down, wincing. 'You were going too fast!'

'I don't think so,' he said. 'I'm pretty sure I was doing 45-that's five clicks under the limit. Of course, the GPS will tell for sure.'

At the mention of empirical evidence, she seemed to lose interest in being angry. 'Give me a phone, will you?'

Mortals may be promiscuous with their handsets, but for a tribalist, one's relationship with one's comm is deeply personal. Art would have sooner shared his underwear. But he had hit her with his car. Reluctantly, Art passed her his comm.

The woman stabbed at the handset with the fingers of her left hand, squinting at it in the dim light. Eventually, she clamped it to her head. 'Johnny? It's Linda. Yes, I'm still in London. How's tricks out there? Good, good to hear. How's Marybeth? Oh, that's too bad. Want to hear how I am?' She grinned devilishly. 'I just got hit by a car. No, just now. Five minutes ago. Of course I'm hurt! I think he broke my hip-maybe my spine, too. Yes, I can wiggle my toes. Maybe he shattered a disc and it's sawing through the cord right now. Concussion? Oh, almost certainly. Pain and suffering, loss of enjoyment of life, missed wages...' She looked up at Art. 'You're insured, right?'

Art nodded, miserably, fishing for an argument that would not come.

'Half a mil, easy. Easy! Get the papers going, will you? I'll call you when the ambulance gets here. Bye. Love you too. Bye. Bye. Bye, Johnny. I got to go. Bye!' She made a kissy noise and tossed the comm back at Art. He snatched it out of the air in a panic, closed its cover reverentially and slipped it back in his jacket pocket.

'C'mere,' she said, crooking a finger. He knelt beside her.

'I'm Linda,' she said, shaking his hand, then pulling it to her chest.

'Art,' Art said.

'Art. Here's the deal, Art. It's no one's fault, OK? It was dark, you were driving under the limit, I was proceeding with due caution. Just one of those things. But you did hit me. Your insurer's gonna have to pay out-rehab, pain and suffering, you get it. That's going to be serious kwan. I'll go splits with you, you play along.'

Art looked puzzled.

'Art. Art. Art. Art, here's the thing. Maybe you were distracted. Lost. Not looking. Not saying you were, but maybe. Maybe you were, and if you were, my lawyer's going to get that out of you, he's going to nail you, and I'll get a big, fat check. On the other hand, you could just, you know, cop to it. Play along. You make this easy, we'll make this easy. Split it down the middle, once my lawyer gets his piece. Sure, your premiums'll go up, but there'll be enough to cover both of us. Couldn't you use some ready cash? Lots of zeroes. Couple hundred grand, maybe more. I'm being nice here-I could keep it all for me.'

'I don't think-'

'Sure you don't. You're an honest man. I understand, Art. Art. Art, I understand. But what has your insurer done for you, lately? My uncle Ed, he got caught in a threshing machine, paid his premiums every week for forty years, what did he get? Nothing. Insurance companies. They're the great satan. No one likes an insurance company. Come on, Art. Art. You don't have to say anything now, but think about it, OK, Art?'

She released his hand, and he stood. The porter with the teeth flashed them at him. 'Mad,' he said, 'just mad. Watch yourself, mate. Get your solicitor on the line, I were you.'

He stepped back as far as the narrow sidewalk would allow and fired up his comm and tunneled to a pseudonymous relay, bouncing the call off a dozen mixmasters. He was, after all, in deep cover as a GMTalist, and it wouldn't do to have his enciphered packets' destination in the clear-a little traffic analysis and his cover'd be blown. He velcroed the keyboard to his thigh and started chording.

• Trepan: Any UK solicitors on the channel?

• Gink-Go: Lawyers. Heh. Kill 'em all. Specially eurofag fixers.

• Junta: Hey, I resemble that remark

• Trepan: Junta, you're a UK lawyer?

• Gink-Go: Use autocounsel, dude. L{ia|awye}rs suck. Channel #autocounsel. Chatterbot with all major legal systems on the backend.

• Trepan: Whatever. I need a human lawyer.

• Trepan: Junta, you there?

• Gink-Go: Off raping humanity.

• Gink-Go: Fuck lawyers.

• Trepan: /shitlist Gink-Go

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