Jim poured gourmet coffee beans into the grinder, and decided that it was about time to come clean with Natasha.
"The cops think that whoever mugged me was after Justine," he said.
Natasha set her spoon down in her cereal bowl with a plunk. "Why in God's name would someone mug you to get a porno program?"
"She's not just any porno program. She's a first-rate A. I., maybe almost as good as Stan, and she has some of the best animation routines I've ever seen. I can think of a lot of people who'd like to get their hands on that--commercial software companies, not to mention anyone who wants to blackmail a public figure with fake footage of them sodomizing choir boys."
Natasha shrugged. "It seems to me that as soon as Justine hits the net, the bottom's going to fall out of the public scandal business. Anyone will be able to claim that their little indiscretion is a fake. Even people with real skeletons in their closet can just say Justine's behind it all."
"Huh. I hadn't thought of that." In fact, he hadn't thought much at all about what might happen if Justine found her way onto the net. Natasha was a bigger nethead than he was; it made sense that she'd be the first to see those kinds of implications. "Maybe that's why those bastards are trying to keep her under wraps--they probably have dirt on half the politicians in the country, and they're afraid Justine will turn all that into so much wasted filespace."
"What bastards are those?" Natasha asked quietly.
Jim realized that he'd been thinking aloud. Woops . "The cops I talked to yesterday--the DEA."
"Jesus Christ, Jim! The DEA?"
"I didn't want to worry you," Jim said lamely.
"I'm a big girl, you son of a bitch. I can take care of myself."
"I know. I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner."
"Damn right you should have. If those pigs are snooping around your filespace, they'll be snooping around mine, too. We'd better encrypt the hell out of everything, especially that bondage porn I pulled down yesterday."
"Yeah, that's not a bad idea," Jim agreed. "We should try to work out some way to hide Justine, too. She's what they're after; she'll be the first thing they look for if they come sniffing around here."
"For starters, you should keep a copy of her at your office. It'll take them a while to get a warrant for U. C. filespace."
"Yeah, that's a good idea." The coffee grinder screamed as the beans inside it disintegrated.
"Jim. . ." Natasha looked thoughtful, a little worried, but mostly resourceful. Jim suddenly found himself very glad to have her around to help him sort this thing out. He cursed the overprotective male instincts which had kept him from filling her in last night. Then again , he thought with a satisfied smile, I was too busy filling her in to fill her in last night . "Have you thought about handing Justine over to the feds?" Natasha continued. "To get them off our backs?"
"Yeah. I'm not willing to do that. Bill Baxter may be a crazy son of a bitch, but he's right about one thing: those pigs have no right to censor our data. The net's the most democratic thing this country's produced in a hundred years. If I can keep something like Justine out of the hands of those data cops, I want to do it." The coffee went into the filter, a pot of water went into the machine, and the daily countdown to coffee began.
"Good," Natasha said. "We agree on that. Besides," she added with a grin, "she's too much fun to just give away; I think we ought to hold onto our own copy no matter what else happens. That still leaves one big question, though. . .if we're going to play data anarchists, should we think about posting Justine to the net ourselves?"
Goddamn, this woman didn't mess around! "I don't think so," Jim said carefully. "Not yet, anyway. Even if we posted anonymously, those feds would know it was me. There aren't that many people who know about Justine."
"What about the guy who wrote her?"
"Sure, but he hasn't posted her yet, so he's waiting for something. I think we should wait, too. So far those DEA guys are friendly enough, but I'm not ready to get them pissed off at me. Not yet, anyway."
"Fair enough. Look, I'm going to clean up our filespace in case they show up."
"Yeah, sounds good." Jim glanced at his watch. "I have time for a cup of coffee, and then I'd better get moving; I have a lecture to give."
The nice thing about teaching "History of the Worldnet" to freshmen, Jim thought, is that you can talk about pretty much whatever is on your mind. What was on his mind today was predictable enough.
"The federal government has been trying to regulate the net for a long time," Jim said. "They have generally focused on those elements of net culture that exist at the fringes of social acceptability. I'm speaking, of course, of electronic pornography." Jim was trying very hard not to look at the blonde in the front row, but there she was, in her little red shorts, listening carefully.
There's nothing quite like talking about sex to get the attention of horny undergraduates, Jim thought wryly as he surveyed the rows of enthusiastic faces. "The attempt to curtail net porn began in the 1990s with the Communications Decency Act. The government quickly began to realize the immensity of the task that faced them as they tried to clean up the net. They decided that no simple congressional act was going to do the trick. And so in 2002 the Data Enforcement Agency was created. To be more accurate, the old Drug Enforcement Agency was simply transformed. The government's attempts to control the net coincided nicely with their reluctant legalization of recreational drugs, and so the DEA got a new mission, and they didn't even have to change the initials on their coffee mugs." There were some smiles at that.
"You may find yourself asking why, out of all the trillions of bytes of data on the net, the government is so concerned with net porn. There are several plausible explanations for this. First," Jim ticked the points off on his fingers as the students put electronic flags into their recordings of the lecture. They always flagged lists. If he wanted them to notice something, he always put it in a list. "There is, I think, a certain degree of leftover Puritanism in this country. Despite Freud, despite the sixties, despite the Sexual Revolution, many people still have the idea that sex is something dirty, that it should be regulated in some way." Careful, Silicane. Don't lay it on too thick. All you need now is trouble from some Christian student offended by your cavalier, liberal humanist attitudes. "Second," Jim continued, "there is the fact that some types of net porn exist on the fringes of cultural acceptability. This is especially true of certain varieties of fetish porn. . ." not that I'd know anything about that!, Jim thought. "And this makes it easier for many people to accept government-imposed restrictions."
"Any student of history will tell you, of course, that this is a tried and true tactic: by regulating and restricting one particular area of life, the government sets the stage for further regulation in other areas. A discussion of other historical examples of this tactic is beyond the scope of this course, but I would be happy to discuss it during office hours with anyone who--" wants to talk about Nazi Germany! "--is interested."
"What the government does not like to admit, indeed what they must not admit even to themselves, is that any attempt to regulate net porn, or to regulate the net at all, is doomed to failure . Near-instantaneous file transfers and uncrackable encryption routines are the common cultural property of any net user today. And so the traffic in net porn continues, barely impacted by the dozens of largely symbolic arrests the DEA makes each year."
Jim took a moment to survey the class's reactions to all this. It was a good idea to shake these kids up from time to time, Jim believed; a little controversy in an otherwise tedious General Ed class was a worthwhile thing. His rabble-rousing seemed to be having the desired effect. A few students looked bored--what the hell did it take to wake these kids up? A few more, mostly women, were looking at him with various expressions of disgust. A larger number, mostly male computer nerd types, were taking an active interest in what he was saying, but he suspected that this interest was largely technical: maybe the professor will tell us where all the good porn sites are! Sorry, guys, you're on your own there; I have enough grief with the DEA as it is . The rest of the class, which made up a scant majority, were wearing expressions of righteous outrage. Excellent!
Three rows back, though, was a nasty surprise that didn't fit into any of the above categories: Agent Jerry Agnostopolis, looking exceedingly out of place in his coat and tie, had somehow squeezed himself into a seat. He had a notebook balanced precariously on his knees and was gazing attentively at Jim over the tops of his Ben Franklin glasses, chewing gum vigorously the whole time. Oh, great , thought Jim. These feds are really gonna love me after this anti-Establishment lecture . Now he found himself torn. He had some momentum going with his class, and he didn't want to waste that. But he also didn't want to give the DEA an excuse to go nosing around his filespace, especially since that filespace was Justine's only home at the moment. He glanced at the clock. Five minutes to go. He wanted to wrap this up with a bang, but he had to be careful.
"All of this naturally raises questions of what your response as a citizen should be," Jim continued. "If you are concerned about government intervention in your personal communications, there are a number of political action groups you might be interested in. Just send me a message if you're interested; I can provide you with the necessary addresses. I also encourage you to express your feelings about the DEA to your congressional representatives. All representatives can be reached electronically; they don't read their messages themselves, but someone does, and your representative will receive your opinion in statistical form. It is not necessarily easy to make oneself heard in a democracy, but it can be done, particularly if one is speaking as part of a larger movement. That's all for today." Jim gathered up his lecture notes, feeling satisfied. Agnostopolis couldn't pin anything on him; all he had done was advocate nice, legal protest within the framework of representative government. Bill Baxter would probably call him a sellout, but Baxter thought everybody was a sellout.
Always the model of predictability, Agnostopolis popped out of his seat and made his way down the aisle to Jim. "Geez, Doc, you sure don't think much of us, do you?" Agnostopolis said with that irritating grin he always seemed to be wearing.
"I don't have anything against you personally, Agent Agnostopolis. . ."
"Call me Jerry."
"Fine. You have to understand that my objection is to the existence of your agency, Jerry. I don't think the DEA is necessary, and in the long run, I think America is better off without it. The DEA represents an unwarranted attempt to restrict the free exchange of ideas which is fundamental to a democratic society."
Agnostopolis's smile never wavered. "Well, you're an honest guy, Doc, and I admire that. But it seems like the American people disagree with you."
Now it was Jim's turn to smile. "That's the great thing about teaching, Jerry. I can give the next generation of voters something new to think about."
"Yeah, I guess you can, at that. Interesting lecture, by the way. I think that historical stuff is fascinating."
"Thanks. Is there something I can do for you, Jerry?" Jim started walking towards the exit; Agnostopolis followed.
"Nothing special, Doc. Phil just thought it might be a good idea if I checked up on you, you know, made sure everything was OK."
"Well, thanks for your concern, but as you can see, I'm fine."
"I don't guess you've heard anything more from Cromwell, huh, Doc?"
"Sorry, Jerry. Like I told your boss, I'll let you know the minute anything turns up."
"OK, Doc. Say, where're you headed now?"
"I'm meeting someone for lunch," he replied, which was true; he and Baxter generally met for lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays after Jim's noon lecture.
"Well, I won't keep you. Take care of yourself, Doc."
"Thanks, Jerry." Jim watched as the pudgy agent barreled out of sight. Agnostopolis certainly made a concerted effort to be likable. The worst part was that it worked; Jim found himself warming to Jerry and had to keep reminding himself that however friendly the man might be, his job made him extremely dangerous.
Jim turned and headed for the Manta Ray Café. The food at the Café was average; it was the usual tuna sandwiches and pasta salads that one found at almost any campus eatery. But it was conveniently located near his lecture hall, and it had tables where one could eat outside under the shade of a small grove of eucalyptus trees. Mostly Jim liked the name of the place. U. C. Oceanside had been born along with a new millennium, and there had been a progressive spirit in the air as this twenty-first century campus had come into being. The chancellor had generously allowed U.C.O.'s nascent student body to chose its mascot, and in the finest tradition of silly U.C. mascots, the students had selected the Manta Ray. The café was located in a small bungalow adjacent to the Social Sciences building; the sign said "Manta Ray Café" in light blue cursive and was ornamented with a goofy looking manta.
Like most University cafés, the Manta Ray had counter service. Jim got in line behind three or four students and spent the next several minutes examining a very cute brunette who was ordering some kind of salad. She was short, but had fairly large breasts which were nice and round.
In good time Jim arrived at the head of line, ordered and purchased a turkey sandwich and a glass of iced tea and moved back outside to look for Baxter. The rotund political scientist was gesticulating wildly from one of the tables under the eucalyptus grove. Jim sighed. Subtlety was not Baxter's strong suit.
Jim joined Baxter, set down his lunch and took a seat. Baxter was already well into his grilled cheese and french fries. His t-shirt for the day read "Nazi Punks Fuck Off." It featured a stylized graphic of a swastika; superimposed on that was a cartoon hand with the middle finger raised.
"You can't wear that in public," Jim said. "It's obscene."
"Fuck you," Baxter said around a mouth full of fries. "It's my First Amendment right. They haven't managed to find a way around that one yet, or did I miss some late-breaking news of congressional action?"
"Last I checked, the First Amendment was still around," Jim admitted, thinking of his lecture. "But my God, Bill, what do your students think?"
"I don't much care what they think as long as they do think," Baxter replied, "which they do all too rarely. Controversy is at the heart of my pedagogy, Jim. I don't mind if they think I'm an asshole. In fact, it's great if they think I'm an asshole, as long as they develop philosophically rigorous reasons to support that belief."
"You would have been proud of me today," Jim said, biting into his sandwich.
"Yeah?" Bill asked.
"Oh, yeah. I did a riff on the DEA, you know, how they represent a challenge to our fundamental rights, how they impede free communications, that kind of thing."
Baxter's face brightened. "Good for you, my lad! I have to say, though, that goes beyond your usual 'gosh, where did the Worldnet come from, anyway?' lectures which, while solidly researched, are often a bit bland, if you don't mind my saying so."
Jim shrugged. "It's a General Ed class; it's bound to be a little bland. But you're right; I don't usually like to push 'em. I did today, though, and it was pretty satisfying."
"Mind if I ask what prompted you to take this position?" Baxter inquired.
"I had a little run-in with some DEA types yesterday; it left me with a bad taste in my mouth."
Baxter's expression turned dark. "You don't say. Nothing serious, I hope."
"Fucking weird is what it was. You know that module I got yesterday, that Justine?"
"I seem to recall something about that."
"Seems the feds are after the guy who wrote it; it's some kind of hardcore pirate software. By the way, keep all this under your hat, will you?"
Baxter looked shocked. "My friend, you know that conspiracy is my forté."
"Good. Well, anyway, the feds are hot to get their hands on this thing, as you can well imagine."
"And you did your duty as a citizen and handed it over?" Baxter asked with more than a little irony.
"I probably would have, which I'm sure you offends you anarchist sensibilities no end. But I didn't have that option; someone lifted it from me."
Baxter arched his eyebrows. "Why, Jim, you seem to be embroiled in an espionage adventure of amazing proportions! How exciting!"
Jim took a bite of his turkey sandwich. "Shame it didn't happen to you; I'm sure you could have found some way to turn it into an opportunity to stick it to the Man."
"You mock me, my friend, and I love you for it."
"You do?"
"Yes." Baxter had finished his lunch; he now sprawled back in his chair and lit a cannabis cigarette. Jim didn't say anything; he didn't mind too much as long as they were outside. "You see, the well-meaning mockery of good friends is essential to me. It forces me to examine my thoughts and actions closely, and it ensures that I follow a true path. One would like to be able to follow the Way using nothing more than a careful consideration of one's inner essence but alas, that boon is reserved for the true sage. The rest of us must sometimes look to others for confirmation of the rightness of our lives."
Jim sipped his iced tea reflectively. "I don't get it. How does me making fun of you confirm the rightness of your path?"
Baxter laughed his big, booming laugh. "It doesn't, of course. But it points out to me the parts of my path that you find questionable, and thus constantly inspires me to fine-tune myself. Ironically, your mockery of my anarchism thus makes me a more perfect anarchist."
"I bet that counts as one of those little Taoist jokes you like so much."
Again the laugh. "Very perceptive, my friend! You live much closer to the truth than you pretend, I think."
"I don't know, Bill. There's plenty about your world that still mystifies me."
Baxter smiled. "The perfect post-gustatory conversation! In that case, what can I do to enlighten you?"
Jim was nearly done with his sandwich. "Hell, I don't know. Why don't you tell me what makes you the way you are? People don't just end up crazy like you."
"People don't just end up any way at all. The world makes them what they are, just as they make the world what it is, for there is no important distinction between us and the world."
Jim blinked. "Come again?" Baxter wasn't always too coherent when he was high, but he was always interesting to talk to.
"I'm talking about what the Hindus call tat tvam asi, 'this thou art.' The world is a unified whole, and individual distinctions are unimportant."
"Seems like a funny position for an anarchist to take," Jim challenged. "If there aren't any individuals, then what's the point of blathering on about freedom all the time?"
"Au contraire, mon frère . My belief in the interconnectedness of all things is one of the most important grounding points for my anarchism. If the Tao is great in all things, then the hierarchies that humans create are meaningless. The Tao is no greater in a powerful leader than it is in you or I, or in your sandwich, or in a turd."
"Arguably it is considerably less," Jim agreed dryly.
"Indeed! As Chuang Tzu says, when we look at things in the light of Tao, nothing is best, nothing is worst. Each thing, seen its own light, stands out in its own way. This is the principle behind my ethical anarchism: the attempt of humans to impose artificial hierarchies and distinctions between people and things is fruitless and ultimately destructive." Baxter tapped an ash from his cigarette onto the table.
Jim smiled and downed the rest of his iced tea. "You know what I like about having lunch with you, Bill?"
"My rapier wit? My insights into the underlying nature of the universe?"
"I like that we don't end up talking about our latest fights with the Dean, or bitching about the tenure review committees we have to sit on, or bragging about how many articles we're getting published. Basically, talking to you gives me a great chance to escape from the mundanities of academic life."
Baxter snorted. "Jim, why do you think I am this way? Most of these zombies spend the first half of their lives trying to get tenure, and the second half trying to set themselves up for some cushy emeritus job in which they can comfortably atrophy. My whole point is to prove that it's possible to break out of that academic mold."
"It must be strange to live your life as a pedagogy," Jim mused.
"There is no more effective teaching method," Baxter assured him. "Though of course, it isn't exactly easy to use your life that way when the pedagogy you're after happens to be one of radical opposition. The entire academic system is designed to prevent that kind of thing."
"I don't know about that," Jim protested. "I think we have more intellectual freedom here at the university than anywhere else. Face it, you'd have landed yourself in jail long ago if you weren't a professor."
"That's true, of course," Baxter admitted. "But there's only so far you can go, even in academia. What happens, for example, when you start to challenge the validity of the academic system itself, when you begin to attack it as another instrument of state control? The danger here is not simply the external danger of censure by the authorities, which can usually be avoided, but a more fundamental internal danger. To wit, a critique of the system which permits critique leaves one without a critical leg on which to stand."
"So you could end up just criticizing yourself right out of existence."
"Quite so. My professional life has become one long exercise in Nietzschean self-overcoming." Baxter glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, I'm afraid I must go and overcome the Dean now--though we probably shouldn't speak of that, lest we descend into the kind of academic banalities that you and I both seek to avoid."
"I'm curious. Why don't we speak of it just this once?" Jim asked.
"If you insist. It seems the clever bastard has a new plan to undermine my critical edge."
"Namely--?"
"He wants to make me chair of my department."
"You're joking."
"Would that I were," Baxter lamented. "Can you think of a better way to eliminate a radical voice? I'd sound like a complete fool if I were making my anarchist rantings from a department chair. It's the usual Establishment strategy: buy off the radicals until they're all part of the system."
"But you won't let it happen," Jim said confidently.
"I'm certainly going to do my best to avoid it. The problem is, no one else wants the damn job, and I'm low man on the totem pole. It's a real pain in the ass."
"Well, good luck," Jim offered, shaking his friend's hand. "I have faith in your ability to continue making everyone's life hell."
"Very reassuring, thank you. I hope your altercations with the Man turn out to your satisfaction."
"I wouldn't worry about it. Take care, Bill."