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tion had been responsible for at least 20 mil-
lion in contraband, and that my Da, the des-
perate villain, had resisted arrest.
I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of
the sitting room, watching it on the screen
and wondering how, just how anyone could
look at our little flat and our terrible, manky
estate and mistake it for the home of an or-
ganized crime kingpin. They took the printer
away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy
for the newsies. Its little shrine in the kitch-
enette seemed horribly empty. When I
roused myself and picked up the flat and res-
cued my poor peeping tweetybird, I put a
blender there. It was made out of printed
parts, so it would only last a month before I'd
need to print new bearings and other mov-
ing parts. Back then, I could take apart and
reassemble anything that could be printed.
I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my
fingernails cut into my palms. I closed my
eyes. ”You've been in prison for 10 years, Da.
Ten. Years. You're going to risk another 10
years to print out more blenders and phar-
ma, more laptops and designer hats?”
He grinned. ”I'm not stupid, Lanie. I've
learned my lesson. There's no hat or laptop
that's worth going to jail for. I'm not going to
print none of that rubbish, never again.” He
had a cup of tea, and he drank it now like it
was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied
exhalation. He closed his eyes and leaned
back in his chair.
”Come here, Lanie, let me whisper in your ear.
Let me tell you the thing that I decided while
I spent 10 years in lockup. Come here and
listen to your stupid Da.”
I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. He
was off his rocker, that much was clear. God
knew what he went through in pris-
on. ”What, Da?” I said, leaning in close.
By the time I turned 18, they were ready to
let Da out of prison. I'd visited him three
times—on my tenth birthday, on his fiftieth,
and when Ma died. It had been two years
since I'd last seen him and he was in bad
shape. A prison fight had left him with a limp,
and he looked over his shoulder so often it
was like he had a tic. I was embarrassed when
the minicab dropped us off in front of the
estate, and tried to keep my distance from
this ruined, limping skeleton as we went in-
side and up the stairs.
”Lanie, I'm going to print more printers. Lots
more printers. One for everyone. That's
worth going to jail for. That's worth any-
thing.”
Copy this story .
Cory Doctorow is a science fiction author, ac-
tivist, journalist, blogger, co-editor of Boing
Boing , and the author of the bestselling Tor
Teen/HarperCollins UK novel Little Brother . His
latest young adult novel is Homeland , and his
latest novel for adults is Rapture of the Nerds .
”Lanie,” he said, as he sat me down. ”You're a
smart girl, I know that. You wouldn't know
where your old Da could get a printer and
some goop?”
 
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