Cory Doctorow: Eastern Standard Tribe

"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

• ##Gink-Go added to Trepan's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again

• Gink-Go:

• Gink-Go:

• Gink-Go:

• Gink-Go:

• ##Gink-Go added to Junta's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again

• ##Gink-Go added to Thomas-hawk's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again

• ##Gink-Go added to opencolon's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again

• ##Gink-Go added to jackyardbackoff's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again

• ##Gink-Go added to freddy-kugel's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again

• opencolon: Trolls suck. Gink-Go away.

• Gink-Go:

• Gink-Go:

• Gink-Go:

• ##Gink-Go has left channel #EST.chatter

• Junta: You were saying?

• ##Junta (private) (file transfer)

• ##Received credential from Junta. Verifying. Credential identified: "Solicitor, registered with the Law Society to practice in England and Wales, also registered in Australia."

• Trepan: /private Junta I just hit a woman while driving the Kensington High Street. Her fault. She's hurt. Wants me to admit culpability in exchange for half the insurance. Advice?

• ##Junta (private): I beg your pardon?

• Trepan: /private Junta She's crazy. She just got off the phone with some kinda lawyer in the States. Says she can get $5*10^5 at least, and will split with me if I don't dispute.

• ##Junta (private): Bloody Americans. No offense. What kind of instrumentation recorded it?

• Trepan: /private Junta My GPS. Maybe some secams. Eyewitnesses, maybe.

• ##Junta (private): And you'll say what, exactly? That you were distracted? Fiddling with something?

• Trepan: /private Junta I guess.

• ##Junta (private): You're looking at three points off your licence. Statutory increase in premiums totalling EU 2*10^5 over five years. How's your record?

• ##Transferring credential "Driving record" to Junta. Receipt confirmed.

• ##Junta (private): Hmmm.

• ##Junta (private): Nothing outrageous. _Were_ you distracted?

• Trepan: /private Junta I guess. Maybe.

• ##Junta (private): You guess. Well, who would know better than you, right? My fee's 10 percent. Stop guessing. You _were_ distracted. Overtired. It's late. Regrettable. Sincerely sorry. Have her solicitor contact me directly. I'll meet you here at 1000h GMT/0400h EDT and go over it with you, yes? Agreeable?

• Trepan: /private Junta Agreed. Thanks.

• ##Junta (private) (file transfer)

• ##Received smartcontract from Junta. Verifying. Smartcontract "Representation agreement" verified.

• Trepan: /join #autocounsel

• counselbot: Welcome, Trepan! How can I help you?

• ##Transferring smartcontract "Representation agreement" to counselbot. Receipt confirmed.

• Trepan: /private counselbot What is the legal standing of this contract?

• ##counselbot (private): Smartcontract "Representation agreement" is an ISO standard representation agreement between a client and a solicitor for purposes of litigation in the UK.

• ##autocounsel (private) (file transfer)

• ##Received "representation agreement faq uk 2.3.2 2JAN22" from autocounsel.

• Trepan: /join #EST.chatter

• Trepan: /private Junta It's a deal

• ##Transferring key-signed smartcontract "Representation agreement" to Junta. Receipt confirmed.

• Trepan: /quit Gotta go, thanks!

• ##Trepan has left channel #EST.chatter "Gotta go, thanks!"

Once the messy business of negotiating EU healthcare for foreign nationals had been sorted out with the EMTs and the Casualty Intake triage, once they'd both been digested and shat out by a dozen diagnostic devices from X-rays to MRIs, once the harried house officers had impersonally prodded them and presented them both with hardcopy FAQs for their various injuries (second-degree burns, mild shock for Art; pelvic dislocation, minor kidney bruising, broken femur, whiplash, concussion and mandible trauma for Linda), they found themselves in adjacent beds in the recovery room, which bustled as though it, too, were working on GMT-5, busy as a 9PM restaurant on a Saturday night.

Art had an IV taped to the inside of his left arm, dripping saline and tranqs, making him logy and challenging his circadians. Still, he was the more mobile of the two, as Linda was swaddled in smartcasts that both immobilized her and massaged her, all the while osmosing transdermal antiinflammatories and painkillers. He tottered the two steps to the chair at her bedside and shook her hand again.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like hell," he said.

She smiled. Her jaw made an audible pop. "Get a picture, will you? It'll be good in court."

He chuckled.

"No, seriously. Get a picture."

So he took out his comm and snapped a couple pix, including one with nightvision filters on to compensate for the dimmed recovery room lighting. "You're a cool customer, you know that?" he said, as he tucked his camera away.

"Not so cool. This is all a coping strategy. I'm pretty shook up, you want to know the truth. I could have died."

"What were you doing on the street at three AM anyway?"