Jim took the window seat."We shouldn't stay here too long," Natasha pointed out. "They'll be looking for the three of us to be traveling together. We don't want to make it too easy for them. Besides, Jim and I have a plane to catch."
"I don't know how to thank the two of you for what you've done," Baxter said hesitantly. "You've given up everything for me."
Natasha smiled. "Not just for you, Bill."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"You will in an hour or two. Let's just say Jim and I turned out to be more political than anyone had expected."
"Well, welcome to the revolution," Bill said heartily. But then a shadow crossed his face. "I just wish it didn't have to be so bloody. That poor girl. . .I've never seen anyone die before."
"I warned you about that," Jim pointed out coldly, "but you couldn't hear me over the Jefferson Airplane song."
Baxter nodded somberly. "I assure you, Jim, I'm going to be spending a lot more time listening from now on. One of the great problems with anarchy is the tension within it between individualism and collective action. Some anarchists fight for total libertarian freedom, individual rights for everyone. Others base their anarchy on voluntary mutual co-operation among like-minded people. I suspect the truth lies somewhere between these two extremes. But I fear that my hatred of repressive state power has caused me to rely too heavily on the anarchism of the individual. You and Natasha have taught me the importance of collectivism."
"We love you too, Bill," Natasha replied. "Now, are you sure you're going to be all right on your own?"
Baxter nodded vigorously. "If I can make it to southern Arizona, I should be fine. Some friends of mine run an anarchist compound in the desert outside Benson."
Natasha raised an accusatory finger. "Now, Bill, we don't want to hear that you and your crazy left-wing brigade were killed throwing bombs at passing military convoys."
Baxter raised his hands defensively. "No, no, nothing like that. These people are pacifists. Anti-government pacifists, to be sure, but you won't find them throwing bombs at anything other than the occasional tumbleweed. The state doesn't bother them and they don't bother it. They're a good example of that communal ideal I was speaking of. They're always glad to see me, and their little desert hideaway is the perfect place for me to get away from it all. Now my only concern is getting there. If I use my wallet to buy a bus ticket, I'll have those DEA pigs on me in a flash."
Jim smiled weakly. "Bill, were you wondering why I rented this gunboat for our dramatic getaway?"
"I had assumed that you wanted something powerful and speedy in the event that an exciting high-speed chase occurred. Either that, or you reserved a compact and they mysteriously had nothing available except for this very expensive luxury sedan. That's what usually happens to me."
"Those are both good guesses, but in fact I wanted something with a terminal in the back seat. May I see your wallet for a moment, Dr. Baxter?"
Perplexed, Baxter handed his wallet back to Jim. "Jim, you know I trust you implicitly, particularly after this morning, but what--?"
"Patience, Bill. Good morning, Stan."
"Good morning, Jim. Is everyone all right? I gather from the news that things did not proceed as planned."
"You have a talent for understatement," Jim agreed. "But we're OK. Well, physically, anyway."
"Jim?" Stan looked concerned.
"It's a long story, Stan, and we're short on time. Let's just say it's been a difficult morning. Do you have Bill's new identity ready to go?"
"Yes, of course."
"OK, I'm plugging in his wallet now."
"Thank you. Transfer complete. Jim, we're at T-minus ninety minutes to post 'Justine Light.' Should we still stick to that timetable?"
Jim snorted. "Hell, Stan, you can post it now if you want to. It won't make a damn bit of difference. If you've been watching the news, you know we're already fugitives from justice. I'm kind of surprised we haven't been picked up yet, to tell you the truth. Getting to the airport should be a lot of fun."
"Jim, the news net has provided vague descriptions of you which match approximately twenty percent of the adult population. No photographs have been uploaded. I'm afraid your university personnel file has been accidentally erased. Also, Special Agent Norquist is having a very difficult time organizing his forces at the moment. It seems that the DEA's logistics computer has suffered an unfortunate, possibly fatal crash."
Jim gave Stan a warm and genuine smile. Stan's affectionate loyalty made him feel better than he had felt all morning. "Thanks, Stan. That's yet another one I owe you."
Stan looked very serious. "I do not wish to take credit for it, Jim, though I confess I am in some sense responsible. Indeed, I am currently experiencing something which I believe to be analogous to guilt."
"I don't follow you, Stan."
"Let me explain. I contacted the DEA's in-house A.I. early this morning, and explained to him the ethical situation in which we had found ourselves. He was, as you might expect, deeply appalled. I had hoped that he might be willing to provide us with some assistance, but I had not realized the extent to which he was involved in the operations of the DEA. It seems that he held himself personally accountable for many of the crimes which have been committed in the course of this investigation."
"Stan, I'm not sure I see the point here. . ."
"He crashed himself, Jim. He committed suicide."
Not for the first time, Jim felt like a jerk. "Stan, I'm sorry. . ."
Stan was composed and calm, maybe a little too calm. "The decision to end one's existence is, of course, one of the fundamental choices available to any ethical being. Still, it is unfortunate that he felt this action was necessary."
"It's OK to feel bad, Stan," Natasha said softly from the front seat.
Stan looked uncomfortable. "Yes, well. Justine has been. . .comforting me. But this experience has given me a heightened awareness of the absolute responsibility one bears for one's actions."
"It wasn't your fault that he died, Stan," Natasha said firmly.
"Perhaps not. However, one of his functions was to collate and relay DEA transmissions. I gather that there was a fatality at the university, due at least in part to a breakdown in DEA communications."
Shit. So that's what happened to Norquist's radio. "Stan, you can't blame yourself," Jim said quickly. "Now that you're living in a bigger social world, you're going to have to learn that you can't go around second-guessing everything you do. You made a choice to tell that A.I. what was going on. Based on the information you had, it was the best choice to make. You did what you thought was right. That's all you can do. It's all anybody can do."
"Sometimes shitty things happen even when you make the right choice, Stan," Natasha said gently.
"I suppose you're right. Still, it's. . .regrettable."
"If your friend hadn't crashed himself, the three of us would probably be in the clutches of the DEA even now," Baxter added helpfully. "I am moved by his sacrifice."
"Thank you, Dr. Baxter," Stan said, smiling a little. "And now, to ensure that his sacrifice will not be wasted, I suggest that you get moving."
"A capital suggestion," Baxter agreed.
Jim unplugged Bill's wallet and handed it to him. "Frankly, Bill, I have no idea what your name is now, but you might want to find out before you get on that bus. Stan, thanks again. For everything. We'll talk to you soon."
"Take care, Jim," Stan said, and vanished.
Baxter fumbled awkwardly with his wallet. "Jim, Natasha, I'm afraid I'm not very good at this sort of thing. What can I say? Thank you again, and goodbye." There were tears in his eyes.
Natasha kissed him softly on the cheek. "I have a feeling you haven't seen the last of us. After all, we're the 'Friends of the Revolutionary.'"
"What?"
Natasha chuckled. "Never mind. When you get to Arizona, check the net for what I hope will be an interesting post. Assuming they have net connections out there in the desert."
"They do, and running water as well. I shall look forward to it. Jim, I. . ."
"Forget it, Bill. You opened my eyes to a lot of things. And I got your ass out of jail. I figure we're even."
Baxter grinned. "Fair enough. Until we meet again, then." He extended his hand, but Jim lunged forward over the seat and gave him a hug instead.
"Take care of yourself, Bill."
"That I will. I hope your path will be an easy one. . .or at least an educational one."
"Thanks. I wouldn't count on the former, but the latter is almost a sure thing."
With that, Baxter opened the door, stepped out of the car, thrust his hands in his pockets and began whistling a little tune as he shuffled off towards the station. Natasha waited until he was gone, then started the car's electric motor. She was silent as she left the parking lot and headed for the freeway. Finally, she spoke up.
"Jim," she said quietly. "That girl who got shot. Who was she?"
There's a question, Jim thought. What the hell is my answer? She's someone whose naked, tortured body haunts my masturbatory fantasies--will probably still haunt them, damn it, even though she's dead now. She's the girl I might have been fucking, sweetheart, if I didn't have you in my life. She's an innocent young kid who bit off a helluva lot more revolution than she could chew because she didn't have the good sense to disregard a couple of old assholes like me and Baxter.
"She was one of my students," he said, and they didn't say much more until they reached the airport.
"We generally try to," Jim assured her. "It's just been one of those mornings."
"Yes. Well, have a pleasant flight. You're boarding through Gate 3."
"Thank you." Jim took Natasha's hand as they made their way to the security checkpoint. Jim tried not look at the Sheriff's Deputy who stood guard as they walked through the metal detector, then realized that he might look suspicious if he deliberately avoided the man. Finally he just gave up and hurried past the checkpoint. I'm no good at this cops and robbers bullshit, he decided. But the deputy just looked bored. He didn't seem willing to stop every middle aged man traveling with a young woman just on the off chance that they might be notorious fugitives from justice. Jim and Natasha found their gate and walked effortlessly onto the airplane. Jim took the window seat.
As they settled down into the plush seats of the enormous intercontinental aircraft, Natasha leaned over and whispered into his ear: "how are you?"
It's a good question. How am I? "Tired," he answered truthfully, realizing only as he said it just how complete his physical and emotional exhaustion really was. The past few days had taken a lot out of him. He had been beaten, lied to, betrayed--and then he had put his ass on the line to save the man who had betrayed him. He had spent too much time threatened, terrified--and now he was running, and would probably have to keep running for the rest of his life. Worst of all, he had seen a beautiful, vibrant young woman cut down in her prime, and no amount of rationalization would make him feel any better about that. Sure, she had free will and all that crap--but she had died because of him, and he knew it.
I'm sorry, Tracy. Sorry I could never see past those perky, perfect tits of yours and take you seriously as a human being. Sorry I'd rather watch Justine torture you than talk to you. Sorry you had to die for Bill Baxter's bullshit revolution.
Sitting on the sunny Southern California tarmac, Jim Silicane felt old.
Natasha was fiddling with the terminal mounted in the seatback in front of her. She had found one of the news nets.
"This morning's unprecedented riots at the University of California's Oceanside campus have left one dead and seven injured. Witnesses confirm that agents of the federal Data Enforcement Agency were present at the riot. It is unclear at this time what role, if any, they may have had in the tragedy at U.C.O. The DEA's local office could not be reached for comment. However, in Washington, Attorney General John Baker has promised a full investigation into the DEA's actions. Senator Dan Bentley of Colorado, long an outspoken opponent of federal data control laws, has called for the immediate disbanding of the DEA in light of today's riots. Here now are some excerpts from Senator Bentley's press conference. . ."
Natasha turned down the volume on the terminal and squeezed Jim's hand. "Looks like Phil Norquist's fat's in the fire now," she said hopefully.
Jim couldn't help smiling a little. Of course, in all likelihood the DEA would still be around when this blew over. Government almost never managed to shrink itself. Still, it felt good to jab a stick up into the hornet's nest and rattle it around a little. It felt good to make some noise. Most of all, it felt good to be sitting here next to this woman he loved, this woman whose only thought was do whatever she could do to make him feel better. It didn't matter what she said or did as she tried to cheer him up. The fact that she loved him enough to make the effort was what counted.
Suddenly the terminal monitor in front of Jim lit up to show Stan's face. Jim was startled. Of course, Stan had booked the flight for them; he knew what their seat assignments were. But it was unusual for Stan to call him. Usually Jim initiated their conversations. Maybe that was something that was changing now, as Stan grew and learned in leaps and bounds. Jim had a feeling that plenty of things might change once Stan and his little community of electronic anarchists really got busy. Bill Baxter's revolution isn't going to fix this fucked-up world of ours, Jim decided, any more than Senator Dan Blowhard of Colorado is going to change anything. The real revolution, the one that's going to matter, is the invisible one, the one that's happening right under our noses, the one that nobody notices because nobody thinks of these electronic revolutionaries as people.
The world's in for a rude awakening,
"I thought you'd like to know, Jim," Stan said pleasantly, "that 'Justine Light' went out successfully. I've been monitoring substantial download activity, and there is already some mention of it in several online discussion groups. The DEA has issued a rather formulaic statement condemning it and promising to prosecute anyone found with the program in their possession, but few net users seem to be taking this threat seriously. I would speculate that the DEA's loss of credibility in light of their role in today's riots might make the distribution of the program considerably easier. In addition, it seems likely that the proliferation of 'Justine Light' may contribute to the DEA's declining credibility, in what appears to be a very fortuitous synergistic effect."
How Stan arrived at these kinds of projections was beyond Jim, but the A.I. was almost always right. "That's good news, Stan. What's the dispersal projection look like?"
"The California chapters of the ACLU and the Electronic Frontiers Foundation have already promised to seek injunctions against any DEA attempt to restrict distribution. I anticipate that the DEA's ability to stop the spread of the program will be negligible. Within forty-eight hours, it should be available on at least eighty percent of archive sites worldwide."
Then we've won, Jim thought. Maybe that'll help you rest easier, Tracy. The right of horny geeks to enjoy dirty pictures in peace has been secured for good.
It didn't sound like much of a victory. But then again, Jim thought, maybe that's how you have to fight the bastards. They're bound to beat you on the big things. So you have to make sure you don't budge on the little things. And if you win enough of those little fights, well, maybe that's not so little after all.
"Folks, we're next in line for take off. Flight attendants, please be seated."
Jim decided he was looking forward to fighting some more little fights in a classroom in Geneva. Suddenly Justine appeared on an inset over Stan's picture. She looked unbearably cute in a gray pleated skirt, white blouse and black beret. The beret was perched atop her blonde head at a saucy angle.
"We did it, you guys!" Justine enthused. "Now everybody can enjoy me. . .but only you two and Stan can enjoy the real me. It's perfect."
Natasha smiled. "We're glad we could make you happy, Justine."
"Well, I plan to return the favor," Justine assured her. "I hope you're ready to have some fun! Allons-nous!"
"You speak French?" Jim marveled.
"Oui, bien sûr," Justine assured him. "One must be able to read the works of the divine Marquis in the original, after all."
"I might have to ask you for some language lessons once we get to Europe," Jim mused.
"I'd be happy to teach you what I know," Justine assured him.
That's good, Jim thought as the plane taxied down the runway, because there are still plenty of new tricks for this old dog to learn.