Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

Trista made a perplexed frown. “Like the Barenaked Ladies?”

“No. Bands from the original trophy. It always consists of the cup on top and five circular bands forming the cylindrical body.” He pointed back at the mockup. “See? Each of the five bands has room for listing the members of thirteen winning teams. When they fill the last spot on the bottom band, they retire the top one, slide the other four up, and add a new band. Those bands in that other case are the ones that have already been removed.”

Trista took some pictures of the retired bands, then looked back at the mockup, peering at its base. “But the last band on the trophy is already full,” she said.

Jo nodded. “That’s right. They’re going to have to retire the top band this year and start a new one.” He paused. “Seen enough?”

Trista nodded. They exited, crossed the street, and waited for their car to come get them. With the Gardiner buried, it was easy to see the Central Nanotechnology Tower on the lakeshore, but there was no point going up to the observation deck anymore. Jo shook his head; he was old enough to remember when the city’s nickname had been Hogtown, not Smogtown.

The car took them north on Yonge Street, the toll being debited automatically. It had been ten years since GTA amalgamation, combining Toronto with everything from Mississauga to Oshawa. Still, the stolen trophy had to be somewhere inside the supercity’s borders; like every other North American metropolis, T.O. was surrounded by security checkpoints, and something as big as the Stanley Cup couldn’t have been smuggled out.

On their left now was the Eaton Centre. Jo’s sister had a condominium there, in what had once been a Grand & Toy store; with most people shopping online these days, there was little need for big malls. As they continued up Yonge, the towers of Ryerson—“the Harvard of the North,” as CNN-MSNBC had recently dubbed it—were visible off to the right. Jo watched the landscape going by—a succession of Tim Hortons donut shops, pot bars, and licensed bordellos. Trista, meanwhile, had her pocketbrain out and was staring at its screen, studying the pictures she’d taken earlier.

Their car turned right onto Carleton, heading towards Maple Leaf Gardens—a historic site, which perhaps might hold a clue—when suddenly Trista looked up from her screen. “No! Car, turn around—head to University Avenue, and then go south.”

Jo looked at his partner. “What’s up?”

“I think I know where the Stanley Cup is.”

“Where?”

Trista brought up a map of downtown Toronto on her pocketbrain and showed it to him. “Right there,” she said, tapping a spot on the screen.

“Oh, come on!” said Jo. “Why would they want it?”

“Did you see what was on that band they’re going to retire this year?”

“Thirteen old winning teams,” said Jo.

“Yes—but which teams?”

“I have no idea.”

She brought up one of the images she’d taken of the duplicate trophy. “The winners from 1953 to 1965.”

“So?”

“So I’ve read what’s on all the bands now, including the retired ones. The band they’re about to remove lists the only five-wins-in-a-row Stanley Cup champions.”

“Really?”

“Yes. See? From 1956 through 1960, Montreal won the Stanley Cup every single year, and—”

Jo got it in a flash. “And there’s no way a sovereign Quebec would let the band commemorating that be archived at the Hockey Hall of Fame, which is on Canadian soil. But the Quebec Consulate—”

“Exactly!” said Trista. “The Quebec Consulate is technically Québécois soil.”

Jo frowned. “But we don’t have any jurisdiction on the consulate grounds.”

“I know,” said Trista. “It’ll take some political wrangling between Ottawa and Quebec.”

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” said Jo.

“What’s that mean?” asked Trista. She was young enough that she hadn’t had to study French in school.

Jo looked out the car’s window as they turned onto University, passing the statue of Mel Lastman. “The more things change,” he said, “the more they stay the same.”

On The Surface

I’m a huge fan of H.G. Wells. In part, it’s because he was the first real practitioner of science fiction as social commentary, the particular brand of the stuff I myself like to write.