oom, 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 organized crime kingpin. They took the printer away, of course,
and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. Its little shrine in
the kitchenette seemed horribly empty. When I roused myself and picked
up the flat and rescued 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 moving parts. Back
then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed.

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 inside
and up the stairs.

"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?"

I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my fingernails cut into my
palms. I closed my eyes. "You've been in prison for ten years, Da.
Ten. Years. You're going to risk another ten years to print out more
blenders and pharma, 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 ten 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 prison. "What, Da?" I
said, leaning in close.

"Lanie, I'm going to print more printers. Lots more printers. One for
everyone. That's worth going to jail for. That's worth anything."

--------

Cory Doctorow has spent the past four years at the Elect