Jim still had Norquist's home number in his wallet. With a certain degree of satisfaction he made the connection. After a significant interval, Norquist appeared, eyes half closed, hair in a disarray. "Norquist. This had better be important. . ."
"Trust me, it's plenty important."
"Christ, Silicane, do you know what time it is?"
"Yes. Now listen up. I have Justine, Norquist."
That woke him up. "You're on thin ice, Silicane."
"Tell me something I don't know. Here's the deal. I want Bill Baxter. You and Jerry meet me at the U.C.O. Student Center in one hour, with Baxter. I don't want any other feds there. You get my copy of Justine. Baxter, Natasha and I walk."
"And if I refuse?" Norquist demanded angrily.
"Then I make Baxter's fondest dream come true."
The look on Norquist's face turned from anger to alarm. "Jesus, Silicane, you can't be serious."
"Try me. You there, Justine?" Justine appeared in a little window on the terminal monitor.
"I'd do what he says, Agent Norquist," Justine said solemnly. "He seems pretty serious about this."
"All right, Silicane, I get the idea. But how do I know you don't have another copy of the damn thing stashed away somewhere?"
Jim shrugged. "If you do what I say, you have my word that you will never see Justine again." Well, it's true enough. She's leaving Norquist's jurisdiction for good. Of course, there was still the little matter of her idiot child, but there was certainly no reason to go into that. If Norquist found out about "Justine Light," it was all over.
"I'm not sure just what your word is worth right now, Silicane." Norquist said coldly.
"Fair enough. Then how about this: if you don't do what I say, then in three hours, Justine goes out from about a dozen anonymous remailers. Which is also what happens if you send some of your goons over to grab us," Jim added matter-of-factly, "so I'd recommend getting your finger off that panic button, Phil. You know who I am. I know what the hell I'm doing. I'm not a fuck-up like Baxter. If I say there's a remailer time bomb out there, you can bet there is, and you can bet that even if you wake up every computer geek on your payroll right now, there's no way they'll find all of my little surprises. Not in three hours. So you get Jerry and Baxter and get your asses over to the Student Center. I'll hand over Justine. When we're safely away, I'll send you the remailer addresses. You and the boys can have a big deleting party, and then Justine will be gone for good."
"What makes you think I'll trust you to hand over those addresses?" Norquist demanded.
"Because I don't want to post Justine, Norquist. I'm not doing this for the revolution. I'm doing it because you have my best friend locked up in the goddamned federal pen."
"He did try to overthrow the United States government, Silicane."
Jim shrugged. "Yeah, well, he's learned his lesson."
"So I'm supposed to believe that you don't really want to post the program, but that you'll do it anyway if I don't turn Baxter loose?"
"That's about the size of it," Jim agreed.
"In other words, you're blackmailing me."
"You got it."
"I don't know, Silicane. Maybe you're just bullshitting me. I don't know if you have the balls to go through with something like this."
Shit. He's starting to get suspicious. Time to wrap this up. "I don't give a fuck what you think, Phil. I'm not above petty vengeance, you know. You think I'm bluffing? Fine. See what you think when you're sitting in the Attorney General's office this afternoon, trying to explain exactly how you let Justine slip through your fingers."
It took a lot to get under Norquist's skin, but Jim had definitely managed it. "Goddamn it, Silicane, do you know who you're talking to? I'm the goddamned federal government, you stupid son of a bitch. I'll have your ass in jail so fast it'll make your head spin!"
"Student center. One hour. Or the shit hits the fan." Jim broke the connection.
"Do you think he bought it?" Justine asked.
"He bought it." Jim remembered the confrontation with Cromwell back at the barracks. "One nice thing about Phil Norquist is that he's a shitty poker player." You'd better be right, Silicane. Or you'll have a real long time to regret it.
"Ready?"
"I guess so." She didn't sound too sure.
"Sweetheart, we can still back out of this. . ."
Her nose wrinkled as her resolve stiffened. "No. I just have butterflies in my stomach, you know? Reminds me of the night before my exams."
Jim chuckled. "Yeah, as I recall, you didn't sleep a wink that night. Well, look on the bright side. Nobody's going to ask you to draw a multi-hub network diagram this morning."
She smiled a little. "Sure, but if we blow it today, we get sent up the river. If I had blown my exams, I just would have had to get a real job."
"Are you sure that's not worse?"
"No, I guess not."
"You want something to eat before we go? Something to settle your stomach?"
"I thought you threw away all the food," she reminded him.
"Uh, yeah, I guess I did. Sorry."
"That's OK. Food would make me puke right now. Let's just get this over with, Jim."
"You got it." They hefted their meager possessions onto their backs, stepped outside and left themselves behind forever. As the door clicked shut behind them, Jim felt a strange sense of freedom. I've done what I can, he thought. It's out of my hands now. The rest is up to the random number generator at the heart of the universe.
The student center was deserted at this early hour. They approached slowly, paying close attention to their surroundings. Seated at one of the round, orange metal tables in the courtyard were Norquist, Agnostopolis and Bill Baxter. Norquist looked irritable; Agnostopolis looked indifferent. Baxter looked excited. On the table in front of them were three Styrofoam coffee cups. No other agents were in evidence. Maybe he took my warning seriously, Jim thought. Then again, maybe not. Jim had a feeling that if there were other feds around, he would know about it only when they decided to show themselves.
"Does it look OK to you?" Jim asked quietly, trying to sound confident. Natasha nodded silently. "OK, let's go." They approached the tables, but came to a halt a healthy twenty feet from their adversaries. The two cops were watching them carefully as they approached, but they made no attempt to rise from their seats.
"Going somewhere, Silicane?" Norquist sneered, eyeing their bags.
"I figured we wouldn't be too popular around here after today," Jim replied evenly. He saw no reason to try to hide the fact that they were about to hit the road. It would become apparent soon enough anyway. They just had to hope that their new identities would hide them from the prying eyes of the DEA.
"You got that right," Norquist agreed. Jim could tell that he had pushed the agent just about to his limit; he had to be very careful here.
Jim turned to Baxter. "They been treating you OK, Bill?"
Baxter smiled weakly. He looked tired, and Jim would swear that he had aged visibly in his two days of captivity. As Jim had suspected, prison didn't agree with Bill Baxter. Seeing Bill like that steadied Jim's nerves. I made the right decision. These bastards will kill him if I let them. Their clean, orderly prison will do the job, and not leave a mark on him. Their "humane" punishment is the worst torture for an iconoclast like Bill. He'd be better off with a good old-fashioned public flogging. I have to get him out of here now, today.
"I can't really complain, Jim," Baxter said, his voice thin but sturdy. "Though it is quite difficult to maintain a decent vegetarian diet at the prison cafeteria. I've been eating a good deal of mashed potatoes--there's no shortage of carbohydrates! Also, the prison library is execrable. There's no decent radical literature at all. I'd settle for a second-hand copy of the Eighteenth Brumaire, anything at all. . .come to think of it, I guess I can complain, can't I?"
"It's jail, Baxter," Norquist snarled. "It isn't supposed to be a picnic."
"No, I don't suppose that it is," Baxter agreed. "After all, how long would your totalitarian state apparatus last if people enjoyed being in prison? You need that threat to hold over the heads of the people. You need that stick, as it were, to complement the carrot of consumerism with which you placate the working classes. . ."
"Christ, Silicane, would you please get this bastard out of here?" Norquist fumed. "If I have to listen to any more of his leftist horse shit. . ."
"You'll be rid of me soon enough," Baxter rejoined. Jim saw that some of the fire was returning to his eyes now. Maybe it was the fresh air and sunshine, or maybe it was the anticipation of freedom. In any case, Jim was glad to see that Baxter's feisty old anarchist self was resurfacing. "For the moment, however, the forces of the revolution are in command of the situation and you, you puppet of imperialism, will do as you're told. To get back to your question, Jim," Baxter continued, never taking his eyes off Norquist, "I found incarceration to be tedious but tolerable, except in one respect. The barbarians refused to permit me access to the herbal remedy upon which I depend, as you know, for spiritual sustenance. Now I wonder, Special Agent Norquist, if you wouldn't mind fetching me a pack from that vending machine across the way there."
"Listen, you hippie pothead, about the only thing I'm going to fetch you is your own balls if you aren't careful. . ." Norquist said, pointing a threatening index finger at Baxter.
"My friend would like a pack of cigarettes," Jim said quietly. "I think that's a reasonable request, don't you?" Jim didn't want to waste too much time here, but he also wanted to help Baxter get some of his dignity back. A moral victory over the cops was probably just the ticket.
"Get the hippie his cigarettes, Jerry," Norquist said between clenched teeth, his voice icy.
"For God's sake, Phil," Agnostopolis protested.
"Just do it!" Norquist ordered.
"Jamaican Reds, isn't it, Bill?" Jim asked calmly.
"Please."
Reluctantly, Agnostopolis made his way over to the vending machine and returned with a pack of cannabis cigarettes and some matches. Baxter took his time unwrapping the pack, drawing out a cigarette and lighting it. He took a deep toke off it and contemplated the glowing red tip reflectively. "Ah, that's better. The world's so much nicer when one has partaken of the proper sacrament."
"If you're quite through," Norquist said, "perhaps we could get down to business."
"Fine by me," Jim agreed.
"Listen, Doc," Agnostopolis interjected. "It's still not too late for you to call this off, you know. You and Natasha can just hand over the remailers and go home. We'll take Captain America here back to the lockup, and we can all pretend this never happened. What do you say? You don't really want to spend the rest of your life on the run, and you sure as hell don't want to drag Natasha down with you. That's no kind of life for a sweet young girl like her. Trust me; I spent a lot of time living out of a suitcase before I got my shit together. It's a lot harder than you think."
"Sorry, Jerry," Jim said softly. "Our minds are made up."
Jerry looked to Natasha and spread his hands out helplessly. "Come on, Natasha, can't you talk some sense into him? I know you two aren't really criminals."
"That's right, Jerry," she agreed. "We're revolutionaries."
"What's the difference?" Jerry said, perplexed.
"If you have to ask, I couldn't explain it," Natasha said gently. "Jerry, you're a good man and I know you mean well, but this is something we have to do. Please try to understand that."
"If you're through with your little 'good cop' routine, Jerry," Norquist interrupted, "the 'bad cop' would like to keep things moving along here."
"Jerry and I are trying to have a conversation, if you don't mind," Natasha retorted.
Jim raised his hand. "No, he's right, sweetheart. We need to get this done and get the hell out of here." Jim pulled the Justine module out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. "There she is."
Norquist lifted the module and looked at it thoughtfully. "Without those remailer addresses, this is totally worthless, of course."
"Think of it as a sign of good faith. You get the addresses once we're gone. Come on, Bill, let's roll." Baxter started to stand, but Norquist's hand came down hard on his shoulder.
"Sit down, Baxter. You aren't going anywhere."
Jim's heart was pounding in his chest. What the fuck is Norquist up to? "Goddamn it, Norquist, I've had about enough of your bullshit. . ."
"And I've had plenty of yours. You almost had me, Silicane, but I'm not quite as dense as you seem to think I am. What you said on the phone got me thinking. You told me you didn't want to post Justine. Somehow that rings true. Of course you don't want to post the damn thing. You're a rational man. You aren't a maniac like Steve Cromwell, or a radical freak like Baxter here. So why would you post Justine? You wouldn't. But you might threaten to, if you thought you could get something out of it. And just now when your girlfriend said you were revolutionaries, that didn't sound quite right, either. As far as I'm concerned, a revolutionary is a criminal with political pretensions. Baxter's a revolutionary, maybe. But you? You're not the political type, Silicane."
"Maybe I just never had the incentive to be political before," Jim improvised, desperately trying to put his bluff back together.
"Maybe. But I don't think so. What I think is that you still harbor some misguided feelings of friendship for Baxter here--why, I can't imagine--and you're willing to land yourself and your girlfriend in the slammer to try to help him out. Which is exactly what's about to happen."
Jim was sweating. "You're taking a big risk, Norquist."
"I guess I am," Norquist agreed, "but I'm damned if I'm going to let the three of you just waltz on out of here. You intellectuals make me sick, Silicane. You sit around in your air-conditioned offices and bitch about the government while that government pays your bills. And since we don't live in China, you get to bitch all you want and there's nothing I can do about it, even if I do think you're full of shit. But you've stepped over the line this time, Silicane. You can only push things so far even in a democracy."
"I didn't vote for you," Jim said simply.
That seemed to throw Norquist for a loop. "What?"
"You think you can take the moral high ground because you have a badge. You justify your official existence by some kind of appeal to truth, justice and the American Way. But I didn't vote for you. I didn't vote for your boss. I didn't vote for the Attorney General. What, exactly, is so democratic about federal law enforcement? As far as I can tell, you're just a pack of bureaucrats, signing each other's checks and blathering on about protecting democracy while you trample on people's rights."
Baxter was grinning from ear to ear. "Well said, Jim! Your political philosophy has been coming along nicely, I see."
Norquist glared at him. "Shut up, Baxter. Look, Silicane, if I gave a fuck about your political theories I'd sign up for one of your classes. Unfortunately for you, I don't. Despite all of your clever anarchist rhetoric, we happen to live in a society ruled by law. And in this particular case, I am the representative of that law. Like it or not, the three of you are coming with me."
Jim could almost feel his blood pressure rising. "And if we refuse? What are you gonna do, Phil? Are you gonna shoot us, right here in the fucking Student Center?"
Agnostopolis looked uneasy. "Geez, Doc, don't let it go down like this. Nobody wants this to get ugly."
"Wrong," Jim corrected. "I want it to get ugly. I want it all over the fucking news." What the fuck am I saying? I'm in way, way over my head here. Norquist's about to snap, and when he does, there'll be hell to pay. I sure don't want Natasha around when the lid finally pops off that rational, restrained mind of his. Jim watched these thoughts fly through his mind, but they had no effect on his actions. He could feel his path unfolding before him, and his wishes and desires had nothing to do with it. He was a creature of action now, and of passion. He was flying forward in the face of adversity with no better weapon than a strong sense of justice. And that's not a helluva lot to go on, he thought. But it doesn't matter. This is my battleground. This is where the bullshit stops, if it ever does. Any remaining doubts are Jim Silicane's doubts, and Jim Silicane is already dead.
Unfortunately, Jim had just about run out of cards to play. The Justine remailers had been his trump card, and Norquist had called that bluff. All he had left was a lot of hot air and some balls. But suddenly Jim saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the world was doing something to even up the odds a little, or at least to complicate things, which was almost as good. Early morning classes were about to begin. Students were starting to drift towards the student center now, and they had noticed the confrontation taking place between Jim and Norquist.
Norquist saw the kids draw near. "Goddamn it, Jerry, I thought you said this area was secure."
Agnostopolis looked nervous. "Sorry, chief. I thought it was. But we're in the middle of a university, you know. You kind of have to expect there to be some students around."
"OK, Silicane, you want an audience? Fine. I don't care. I'm an agent of the United States government, performing my legal duty, and if any of these kids have a problem with that, we can take them down to my office and sort it out." Norquist stood abruptly, diving into his suit jacket with both hands. He came out holding his badge in one hand and his service revolver in the other. Jim heard a few shouts from the crowd as the gun came out. Agnostopolis stood up as well, but his gun was still in its holster; he looked decidedly edgy. "James Silicane and Natasha Bukharin," he said in a loud, clear voice. "You are under arrest for violation of federal data law. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." As Norquist rattled off the words he had recited so many times before, Jim heard rumblings in the crowd.
"That's Bill Baxter!"
"Who?"
"You know, that prof who got busted for illegal data."
"Oh, cool!"
"What's going on, man?"
"Who are those cops?"
"Fucking DEA."
"Man, they're the worst! You can't get any decent porn with those guys around!"
Norquist was looking more and more uptight, but he kept his voice loud and steady. "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney. . .for God's sake, Jerry, get those fucking kids out of here, will you?"
Reluctantly, Agnostopolis moved towards the crowd, flashing his badge. "Move along, please, folks. Official DEA business. Move along. Nothing to see here."
The crowd was ignoring him, as crowds will do. In fact, Jim realized, it was looking less and less like a crowd and more and more like an angry mob. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you," Norquist continued, and that's when Jim first heard it, quiet but growing stronger in the cool, still, early morning air:
"Free Bill Baxter! Free Bill Baxter! Free Bill Baxter!"
Jim had a sinking feeling that he knew what, or rather who, was going on over there, and a glance at the crowd confirmed it. Standing in front of the crowd and facing it was Tracy Masterson. She had on a white halter top and shorts; with her hair in its ubiquitous ponytail, she looked like some kind of bizarre cheerleader for electronic anarchy.
"All right, you two, I want to see your hands on your heads now!" Norquist bellowed, leveling his pistol at Jim and Natasha. Jim saw him bend his head down slightly; he was speaking into his lapel. "Simmons! Get some men over here pronto! Simmons? Goddamn it!" Norquist looked up at Agnostopolis, who was approaching Tracy. "Jerry! My goddamn radio is out! Buzz the van for some backup!" But Jim could tell that Jerry was too close to the crowd; he couldn't hear Norquist at all. Jim took Natasha's hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He risked a quick look at her dark eyes. She was ready to move. Now if he could only figure out what the fuck to do. . .
Agnostopolis was confronting Tracy. "All right, Miss, that's enough of that. . ." Jim saw him put his hand on her shoulder, and that's when the whole world fell apart.
Norquist was shouting at his lapel. He looked like a complete lunatic, but he was a lunatic with a gun. Suddenly Bill Baxter, whom everyone seemed to have forgotten about, decided it was time to go. He launched himself up off the orange bench with surprising force and speed. Jim found himself thinking that maybe he should have paid more attention a few months ago when Bill had tried to sell him on the idea of taking T'ai Chi lessons. Baxter hit Norquist in the right shoulder, slamming into him like a big Taoist truck. Norquist looked startled to find himself collapsing onto the concrete. Baxter didn't stop or look back, but came barreling towards Jim and Natasha at full speed.
As all this was happening, a burly, musclebound jock with a frat boy haircut--Tracy's boyfriend?--was stepping between her and Jerry Agnostopolis. Jim heard "Get your hands off her!" A fist came down across Jerry's chin, hard, and he fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The mob, or as Jim found himself thinking of them now, the riot, took this as a call to arms, and began to surge forward.
The courtyard in which they stood was surrounded on three sides by the Student Center building itself; their only way out was through the building or back through the crowd of students. Jim didn't much like either option; the mob seemed unlikely to distinguish between friend and foe in its blind, formless rage, and as soon as Norquist got his radio working again, the building was likely to be swarming with DEA agents. But it wasn't as if he had a lot of time to work out a sensible plan. If he didn't figure out something within the next couple of seconds, he and Natasha were going to be right in the middle of U.C. Oceanside's first genuine riot.
That's when he saw the snipers, and knew that there was no way this was going to have a happy ending. There were three of them on the roof of the Center, in dark suits and sunglasses, cradling high-power rifles. They had popped up like shooting-gallery targets about two seconds after Baxter made his break, and now they were sighting on Baxter through their scopes and shouting into their lapels, presumably asking for permission to fire.
Baxter had nearly reached Jim and Natasha. The student mob, coming from the other direction, was practically on top of them. Jim saw Tracy in the front of the crowd, waving and shouting. "Professor Silicane! Over here!" Jim tried to warn her back, but it was almost impossible to make himself understood in the turmoil and confusion of the riot.
Norquist was on his knees now. He had dropped his pistol, realizing quite correctly that six .38 rounds were worse than useless against the oncoming wall of flesh. He was fumbling desperately with the radio inside his jacket. "Hold your fire, you assholes! There are too many civilians! Hold your fire!"
As Baxter reached their position, Jim made his decision. He turned to follow the big man back into the swirling mob of angry youth, pulling Natasha along with him. Her hand was like a vise around his. We never needed to hold on like we need to hold on now, Jim thought grimly. Just let us have the strength.
As they dove headlong into the riot, Jim tried to wave the students back with his free hand. "Get back! Get back! Snipers on the roof!" But he knew as the words left his mouth that they were just so much white noise. Jim was a leaf in a storm; this story was being written by indifferent forces beyond the comprehension of any mere human. Some of those forces--the spontaneous, libidinal energy of these young men and women--were beautiful. Tragically, however, it was the small forces, the mean and petty forces of men who felt alive only when they were in control, that decided this day.
Jim never heard the shot. He didn't even realize until later what had happened. At the time he thought nothing, felt nothing but pure terror. As they raced past her, Tracy Masterson held out her hand to him and smiled. "Run, Doctor Silicane!" she shouted. "We'll grgh," she finished as her throat exploded.
As she collapsed into his arms, Jim heard screams, and realized that they were his own. The bullet had ripped a crater out of her throat; her heart was pumping impossible quantities of bright red arterial blood out onto her clean, white halter top and onto Jim. He felt her firm, proud breasts, the breasts that had fascinated him these past months, pressing against his chest. Soon her breasts would be cold, but now they were warm, and wet.
Jim was dimly aware that Natasha was shouting at him. "You can't help her, Jim, and we have to get out of here now!" He felt her pulling on his arm, and he knew that she was right, but his legs wouldn't move. "Goddamn it, Jim, move your ass!" Finally, he managed to propel himself forward. As they moved through the crowd, Jim risked a glance back. Tracy had fallen to the ground, where she lay on her back, twitching, dying. The mob swirled around her, confused, furious, impotent.