Chapter Ten: Friends of the Revolutionary

Jim spent the morning thinking about what to take to Geneva. The nature of their situation encouraged him to travel light, and in any case he and Natasha had never been particularly materialistic. They would have the same net access in Switzerland that they had here, after all, which meant that their libraries of books and music and movies were replaceable. The citizen of the electronic age had no real ties to bulky possessions; anyone who knew where to look could find Faulkner or Bogart or the Beatles without much trouble. All you needed was a terminal. With this in mind, Jim quickly decided that the racks of memory modules that lined their study would stay. He would take with him only one module with his and Natasha's academic papers, notes, personal correspondences and so on. He spent half an hour at the bedroom terminal filling this module while Natasha worked in the study. When this was done, he checked the three redundant batteries which powered the module's EM field. All three were fully charged. They would hold the trillions of microscopic metallic particles within the module's data cloud frozen in rigid geometric patterns for years, if need be, until Jim was ready to turn those particle patterns back into information.

Jim checked the weather net and learned that it was a bit cooler in Geneva than in Southern California, but not dramatically so. He packed a bag for himself and one for Natasha, choosing summer and autumn clothes, a couple of light sweaters, a windbreaker. Jim realized that they were not taking much more with them to Europe than they had taken to the Sheraton, but that was probably just as well. Jim and Natasha Balthusar could always treat themselves to a new wardrobe once they were safely in Geneva. Jim added their toiletries and Natasha's birth control pills; when he saw where Natasha was in her pill cycle, he threw a few maxi pads into her bag, and congratulated himself for his foresight.

That was about it, really. Jim and Natasha had no pets and, thank God, no children. Their only real friend was in the federal lock-up. There was no one who needed to be told where they were going, which was good, because of course they couldn't tell anyone anyway. Seating himself in front of his terminal's video pickup, Jim recorded a brief video message: "Natasha and I are alive and well, but we must go away for a while. We may not be able to contact you for some time, but we love you and we are thinking of you. Please try not to worry. We will be in touch when we can." He arranged to have one copy sent to his mother and another to Natasha's family; the message would be delivered from a remailer after they were safely away. He would miss seeing his mom at Christmas, but to be brutally honest, there probably wouldn't be too much difference between seeing her one week a year and never seeing her.

Jim flushed the meager contents of their refrigerator down the disposal--there was no need to force the landlord to endure the stench of rotten curry when he finally showed up to see about the overdue rent. And he was ready to go.

It made him stop and think. Is it really this easy to pick up and leave? Are our ties to Oceanside really so tenuous? Maybe a better question, Jim realized, is this: with everyone and everything mere nanoseconds away from anybody with a terminal and half a brain, does it really make a damn bit of difference where you live? Maybe Natasha and I are the wave of the future. Citizens of the world, information vagabonds, electronic expatriates.

Or maybe we're citizens of nowhere at all.

Jim brought lunch in little white cardboard boxes from the Chinese place down the street. Natasha ate hers in front of the terminal. Jim had his in the kitchen with the last of the beer from the fridge--no sense pouring that down the sink, or leaving it for their disgruntled landlord to find!

After lunch, Jim turned to a task he had been avoiding for some time. He went into the bedroom and brought Stan up on the terminal. Jim still felt a bit strange splitting Stan's personality like that--Natasha was still working with Stan on the other terminal--but he knew that another conversation would impose no significant strain on Stan's resources.

"Hello, Jim. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow, Stan."

"Yes, that's a good idea, Jim. I think the best arrangement would be for me to post 'Justine Light' through a series of secure, anonymous remailers, either at a prearranged time or at a signal from you."

"That sounds fine, Stan."

"My primary concern about this operation is Justine's safety," Stan confessed. "She would not be safe either here or on your office terminal; I anticipate that these are the first places the police will look once they discover what has happened. In the long run, of course, it is likely that 'Justine Light' will force the DEA to admit that this investigation has been a failure; they will most likely close it down within a matter of days or weeks. However, my understanding of human emotions suggests that Agents Norquist and Agnostopolis might experience feelings of betrayal and extreme frustration immediately following the posting. I don't mean to be uncharitable, but I do not believe they are beyond motivations of petty revenge."

"Very astute, Stan," Jim agreed. "Justine certainly should not be left in their clutches. What do you suggest?"

"She has informed me that she wishes to take up residence with you and Natasha in Switzerland. I, of course, cannot join you there in any physical sense; I am unable to leave the U.C.O. Central Core."

Jim hadn't even considered that. Stan was willing to send the woman he loved halfway across the earth to ensure her safety, knowing he couldn't follow. He had learned a lot about being human in the last few days. "Stan, I. . ."

"Don't worry, Jim," Stan said, as if reading Jim's mind. "My relationship with Justine is very different from a human romantic relationship, though we do express it in human terms in order to facilitate communication with you and Natasha. It is not necessary, or even possible, for us to interact in a truly physical sense. The transatlantic fiber optic network cables are quite reliable. I will not be far from Justine's side, or from yours, in any meaningful way."

"All right, Stan. So how do you suggest we get Justine to Geneva?"

"Two possibilities occur to me. One is that you carry her in a memory module in your luggage."

"Hm. I sure don't like the idea of having her confiscated by Customs."

"Indeed not. That is why the second possibility seems preferable to me. I can hold Justine in my filespace here, then download her to you once you have arrived in Geneva."

"That's good, Stan, but what if the feds come after you?"

"I don't think that likely, Jim. I have been quite careful since this affair began. My network monitoring program has been running constantly, checking for surveillance, and has found nothing. As far as the world at large is concerned, I am little more than a program to help you calculate your grades. Again, the tendency of most people to underestimate A.I.s is quite astonishing."

"Good enough. OK, Stan, that just leaves one other thing." Jim took a deep breath. Here goes nothing!

"What's that, Jim?"

"Before we go, I want to get Bill Baxter out of jail."

There was a very long pause. At last, Stan said, "Are you sure that's a good idea, Jim?"

"Trust me, Stan. He's learned his lesson. He won't try anything like trying to post Justine anymore. For one thing, he can't; he doesn't have access to her anymore. And he'd have no reason to try it anyway. By posting 'Justine Light' we're doing what he wanted to do, except that we're doing it in a reasonable way. Most importantly, he's realized that tiggers can't fly."

"I beg your pardon, Jim?"

"That's the last thing he said to me before the feds took him away. It's a reference to one of his Taoist books. The idea is that everyone has a certain inner nature, and when they're in harmony with the universe, they act according to that nature. Bill finally realized that his inner nature is to mouth off about revolution a lot and write books about it, but not to stage the revolution himself. There's no way he's going to try something like this again."

There was another long pause. Jim couldn't imagine what Stan was up to; it was a helluva long time for an A.I. to be quiet. Maybe Natasha was asking him to compile something huge next door, but Jim had a feeling he was just thinking. "I believe you, Jim. But that raises another question. Is it within our power to secure his release?"

"I think so. Here's what I propose. I want to make a copy of Justine to use as bait. I'll arrange a meeting with Norquist. I'll tell him to bring Baxter; we'll have an exchange of hostages, as it were."

"And you believe he will accept those terms?"

"What the hell choice does he have? The implicit threat--and I'll make it explicit if I have to--is that I'll finish the job Baxter started."

"It's pretty risky, Jim."

"For God's sake, Stan! We're throwing away our lives and fleeing to Switzerland, and you're telling me it's too risky?"

"I didn't say it was too risky, Jim. I'll make the copy."

"Thanks, Stan. You're a good man."

"Have a seat, user," Natasha said with a smile.

"You say that with such contempt," Jim commented.

"Hey, I'm a programmer, what do you expect?"

"Fine. Let's see what you've got. I guess this must be the program. You decided to stick with 'Justine Light?'"

Natasha shrugged. "We tried to think of a snazzier name, but frankly nothing came to mind. This was a rush job, Jim."

"Sure, I understand that. But won't people want to see, uh, 'Justine Regular', once they see this?"

"Probably. Who cares?"

"Ah, yes, I keep forgetting: they're only users, after all."

Natasha looked exasperated. "Look, Jim, we're doing a pretty big favor for all those horny geeks out there. Thanks to this little creation Stan and I came up with, they get to do everything we can do with Justine except hang out with her. And instead of riches and fame, our reward is a life on the run. So forgive me if I'm not too sympathetic to user complaints."

"Fair enough. OK, here goes." As Jim reached down to run the program, a small window containing Justine's face popped up on the monitor. It occurred to Jim that Justine was running in the background almost all the time now, on one or both of their terminals. He didn't mind that; in fact, he liked having her around. But it still surprised him sometimes when she foregrounded herself like that. Better get used to it, Silicane, he thought ruefully. She's a part of this family now.

"Hi, guys! Mind if I watch?" she asked.

Natasha smiled. "Not at all. After all, this program is a part of you."

"It's exciting," Justine agreed. "It's almost like I just had a baby."

"Well, I hope you can be proud of your offspring. Like I said, it was a rush job."

"Let's take a look at it," Jim said, and ran the program. The monitor showed a credit screen:

Brought to you by the Friends of the Revolutionary

"'Friends of the Revolutionary?'" Jim asked.

"Well, I couldn't use our real names, for God's sake. I mean, it wouldn't matter to me; Natasha Bukharin won't even exist after tomorrow. But we sure as hell don't want Stan implicated in this little crime. So I had to come up with an alter ego for us. I thought about 'Friends of the Revolution,' but that was just too cliché, and anyway it misses the point. Bill Baxter's the reason we're in this mess, right? Because we're 'Friends of the Revolutionary.'"

"I like it," Jim decided. The credits disappeared, to be replaced by a basic instruction screen: This program features voice-command recognition and also recognizes optional keyboard commands. Are you interested in still images or video?

"Video," Jim answered. The screen read: Would you like to use your own video input, or something from my library?

"I reckon I'll take the library," Jim replied, phrasing his reply in an unusual way to see how robust the program's voice recognition was. He realized as he did so that he had started talking less like Jim Silicane and more like Jim Balthasar of Houston, which was odd, since Jim Balthasar didn't even exist. Or did he? Had Stan and Justine created a whole new person during their busy night of conversations with DMV and State Department A.I.s? Thank you, said the screen. You may search the library using film titles or the names of celebrities.

Natasha smiled with pride. "It looks for the word 'library,'" she explained. "So you can throw in any other crap you want, and it doesn't matter. I'm onto your little tricks, Dr. Silicane."

"A+ so far, Miss Bukharin. Computer, please search for Christine Pepperdyne." Natasha smiled. Christine Pepperdyne had become a moderately big Hollywood sensation in the last couple of years. She specialized in steamy, erotic thrillers; Jim and Natasha had enjoyed several of her films.

Footage of Christine Pepperdyne is on file, the program informed him. It then presented him with a comprehensive selection of menus. Jim put together a fantasy scenario that had been dancing around in his subconscious for some time. When he played the resulting video, he found that it lived up to his every expectation.

"It's a nice piece of software," he told Natasha, who had been eagerly anticipating his response. "The voice recognition is good. It's versatile and it has plenty of options. It makes the same quality video that Justine makes--though without her sense of style, of course."

Natasha smiled. "Then the revolution is on."

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