Eastern Standard Tribe
Page 4
scorching, molten coffium, screamingand clawing at his eyes, upside down, when the porters from the Royal Gardenopened his runabout's upside-down door, undid his safety harness and pulled himout from behind the rapidly flacciding airbag. They plunged his face into theornamental birdbath, which had a skin of ice that shattered on his nose andjangled against his jawbone as the icy water cooled the coffium and stopped theterrible, terrible burning.
He ended up on his knees, sputtering and blowing and shivering, and cleared hiseyes in time to see the woman he'd hit being carried out of the middle of theroad on a human travois made of the porters' linked arms of red wool and goldbrocade.
"Assholes!" she was hollering. "I could have a goddamn spinal injury! You're notsupposed to move me!"
"Look, Miss," one porter said, a young chap with the kind of fantastic dentitionthat only an insecure teabag would ever pay for, teeth so white and flawlessthey strobed in the sodium streetlamps. "Look. We can leave you in the middle ofthe road, right, and not move you, like we're supposed to. But if we do that,chances are you're going to get run over before the paramedics get here, andthen you certainly *will* have a spinal injury, and a crushed skull besides,like as not. Do you follow me?"
"You!" she said, pointing a long and accusing finger at Art. "You! Don't youwatch where you're going, you fool! You could have killed me!"
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, alitigious stridency that tightened his sphincter like an alum enema andmiraculously flensed him of the impulse to argue.
"Sorry?" she said, as the porters lowered her gently to the narrow strip turfout 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 somespine.
She attempted to sit up, then slumped back down, wincing. "You were going toofast!"
"I don't think so," he said. "I'm pretty sure I was doing 45 -- that's fiveclicks under the limit. Of course, the GPS will tell for sure."
At the mention of empirical evidence, she seemed to lose interest in beingangry. "Give me a phone, will you?"
Mortals may be promiscuous with their handsets, but for a tribalist, one'srelationship with one's comm is deeply personal. Art would have sooner sharedhis underwear. But he *had* hit her with his car. Reluctantly, Art passed herhis comm.
The woman stabbed at the handset with the fingers of her left hand, squinting atit in the dim light. Eventually, she clamped it to her head. "Johnny? It'sLinda. 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 grinneddevilishly. "I just got hit by a car. No, just now. Five minutes ago. Of courseI'm hurt! I think he broke my hip -- maybe my spine, too. Yes, I can wiggle mytoes. 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 theambulance 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 outof the air in a panic, closed its cover reverentially and slipped it back in hisjacket 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 weredriving under the limit, I was proceeding with due caution. Just one of thosethings. 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 splitswith you, you play along."
Art looked puzzled.
"Art. Art. Art. Art, here's the thing. Maybe you were distracted. Lost. Notlooking. Not saying you were, but maybe. Maybe you were, and if you were, mylawyer's going to get that out of you, he's going to nail you, and I'll get abig, fat check. On the other hand, you could just, you know, cop to it. Playalong. You make this easy, we'll make this easy. Split it down the middle, oncemy lawyer gets his piece. Sure, your premiums'll go up, but there'll be enoughto cover both of us. Couldn't you use some ready cash? Lots of zeroes. Couplehundred 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, Iunderstand. But what has your insurer done for you, lately? My uncle Ed, he gotcaught 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 onelikes an insurance company. Come on, Art. Art. You don't have to say anythingnow, but think about it, OK, Art?"
She released his hand, and he stood. The porter with the teeth flashed them athim. "Mad," he said, "just mad. Watch yourself, mate. Get your solicitor on theline, I were you."
He stepped back as far as the narrow sidewalk would allow and fired up his command 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 hisenciphered packets' destination in the clear -- a little traffic analysis andhis cover'd be blown. He velcroed the keyboard to his thigh and startedchording.
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 messagesagain
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 messagesagain
##Gink-Go added to opencolon's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messagesagain
##Gink-Go added to jackyardbackoff's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to seemessages again
##Gink-Go added to freddy-kugel's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to seemessages 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, alsoregistered in Australia."
Trepan: /private Junta I just hit a woman while driving the Kensington HighStreet. Her fault. She's hurt. Wants me to admit culpability in exchange forhalf the insurance. Advice?
##Junta (private): I beg your pardon?
Trepan: /private Junta She's crazy. She just got off the phone with some kindalawyer in the States. Says she can get $5*10^5 at least, and will split with meif I don't dispute.
##Junta (private): Bloody Americans. No offense. What kind of instrumentationrecorded 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. Statutoryincrease 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? Myfee's 10 percent. Stop guessing. You _were_ distracted. Overtired. It's late.Regrettable. Sincerely sorry. Have her solicitor contact me directly. I'll meetyou here at 1000h GMT/0400h EDT and go over it with you, yes? Agreeable?
Trepan: