Copyright (C) 2006 by Cory Doctorow.
Printcrime
(originally published in Nature Magazine, January 2006)
Cory Doctorow
The coppers smashed my father's printer when I was eight. I rememberthe hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Da's look offerocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm,fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it.
The coppers came through the door with truncheons swinging, one of themreciting the terms of the warrant through a bullhorn. One of Da'scustomers had shopped him. The ipolice paid in high-gradepharmaceuticals — performance enhancers, memory supplements, metabolicboosters. The kind of things that cost a fortune over the counter; thekind of things you could print at home, if you didn't mind the risk ofhaving your kitchen filled with a sudden crush of big, beefy bodies,hard truncheons whistling through the air, smashing anyone and anythingthat got in the way.
They destroyed grandma's trunk, the one she'd brought from the oldcountry. They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unitover the window. My tweetybird escaped death by hiding in a corner ofhis cage as a big, booted foot crushed most of it into a sad tangle ofprinter-wire.
Da. What they did to him. When he was done, he looked like he'd beenbrawling with an entire rugby side. They brought him out the door andlet the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car.All the while a spokesman told the world that my Da's organized-crimebootlegging operation had been responsible for at least 20 million incontraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest.
I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watchingit on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at ourlittle flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the homeof an organized crime kingpin. They took the printer away, of course,and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. Its little shrine inthe kitchenette seemed horribly empty. When I roused myself and pickedup the flat and rescued my poor peeping tweetybird, I put a blenderthere. It was made out of printed parts, so it would only last a monthbefore I'd need to print new bearings and other moving parts. Backthen, 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'dvisited him three times — on my tenth birthday, on his fiftieth, andwhen Ma died. It had been two years since I'd last seen him and he wasin bad shape. A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he lookedover his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic. I was embarrassedwhen the minicab dropped us off in front of the estate, and tried tokeep my distance from this ruined, limping skeleton as we went insideand 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 mypalms. 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 moreblenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats?"
He grinned. "I'm not stupid, Lanie. I've learned my lesson. There'sno hat or laptop that's worth going to jail for. I'm not going to printnone of that rubbish, never again." He had a cup of tea, and he drank itnow like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation. Heclosed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.<