Jim had no trouble spotting the unmarked beige sedan parked across the street from his apartment. And neither will Cromwell, he thought ruefully. Jerry Agnostopolis smiled and waved, sipping coffee. Jim waved back. My tax dollars at work , he thought. Well, it's better than nothing.
His wallet admitted him to the apartment as usual, but this time he stopped to think about that. A programmer of Cromwell's talents wouldn't have much trouble overriding the electronic lock.
Natasha was sitting on the couch; she looked nervous. She jumped as Jim entered the room, but her face brightened as she recognized him. Unfolding her long legs, she stood and embraced him.
"I was worried about you," she said softly.
"I'm fine, sweetheart," Jim replied, trying to sound unconcerned. And you are too, thank God . "But I do think we should disappear for a while."
"Our filespace is 100% secure," Natasha said. "I used our usual encryption key. I tried to encrypt Justine too, but it looks like you already did that. And I packed a few things," she added, nodding towards an overnight bag that stood ready by the door. "A couple changes of clothes for each of us, toothbrushes, that kind of thing."
Jim looked into her dark, brilliant eyes. "You're a mind reader," he said. "And a lifesaver. Let me call the feds, then we can go."
Natasha frowned. "Are you sure you can trust them?"
"No, but I'm positive I can't trust this Cromwell guy. I figure our best bet is to let these bastards serve and protect us like they're supposed to." Jim dropped his wallet into the terminal; Norquist's face lit up the screen.
"Norquist."
"Silicane. Natasha and I want to move into a motel for a couple of days. What do you think?"
"It's a good idea," Norquist agreed. "If you like, Jerry can escort you."
"Fine."
Agnostopolis held the car door open for Natasha, smiling broadly. "Pleased ta meetcha, Miss Bukharin. I'm Jerry Agnostopolis."
"Uh, thanks. . .Jerry," Natasha replied, giving up immediately on Jerry's labyrinthine surname. "Call me Natasha."
"You got it, Natasha." Jerry slid into the driver's seat and started the beige Ford's electric motor. "You two got nothing to worry about. You're booked at the Harbor Sheraton, and the DEA picks up the tab." Jerry swung out into traffic without, as far as Jim could tell, bothering to check for oncoming cars.
"That's mighty nice of you, Jerry," Jim said.
"Think nothin' of it. It's the least we can do, seeing as you're helping us out."
"Jim," Natasha said suddenly from the back seat. "What exactly was in the message that Cromwell sent you?"
"Sorry, ma'am," Jerry said, looking at her in the rear-view mirror. "Phil told me that's all classified now." Jim felt a momentary surge of hostility towards Phil and Jerry's police state tactics, but it quickly faded as he realized that he didn't really want to answer Natasha's question anyway.
Jerry was headed for the freeway. "You just rest easy," he said cheerfully. "We ain't the Canadian Mounties, but we get our man most of the time. I won't let that sick son of a bitch near you folks. I like you too much for that." They were quiet for a few moments. The car found an on-ramp and sped up. They were now on what was officially known as Interstate 5, but everybody just called it "the freeway." With fifteen lanes of traffic in each direction, it was the undisputed king of Southern California's freeway network; it was the spinal column that held the Metroplex together.
"Jerry," Jim said slowly, "Cromwell might still try to come by our apartment."
"That's OK, Dr. Silicane. Phil's sending a surveillance team over to keep an eye on the place. Which leaves me free to keep an eye on you two." Jim tried to feel reassured by that. Jerry seemed like he'd be a fun guy to have a few beers with, but Jim wasn't too confident in his abilities as a bodyguard. But then, Cromwell wouldn't have any way to find them at the hotel.
Would he?
"Mr. and Mrs. . . .Smith," Natasha read from their registration receipt. "Well, your friends at the DEA certainly are creative."
"They aren't my friends," Jim reminded her. "But right now we need them."
"I know, sweetheart. I'm just edgy, that's all."
Jim set their bag down on the luggage rack and surveyed the room. It looked like any hotel room anywhere: a round table, two chairs, a desk with an ashtray and complementary stationary, a terminal and two big beds.
"Try to think of it as an impromptu vacation," Jim suggested.
"God knows I could use some time away from those damn network models," Natasha said cheerfully, walking over to the large curtains which dominated the far wall. She pulled the curtains open to reveal a sliding glass door. Beyond the door was a small balcony; beyond that, the Pacific Ocean. 
"Now it feels like a vacation!" she decided. Suddenly she jumped onto one of the beds, pulled two giant-sized pillows out from under the blankets, fluffed them up behind her, and sprawled out luxuriously. "I love staying in motels," she said. "It doesn't matter where I am. Even if it's just a few miles from home, like this place, I love it. I always feel like I'm on some kind of adventure when I'm in a motel."
"This time you are," Jim reminded her.
"Even better!" she said with a playful smile.
"Natasha," Jim said softly. "This is serious."
A flash of anger crossed her face. "Don't you think I know that? You think I don't know it's serious when you start bringing home DEA agents with you?"
"Sorry."
"I just don't think that being in danger should mean curling up into a ball like a scared kitten," she said with a scowl.
Jim sat down on the bed next to her and put a hand on her knee. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry, sweetheart."
She softened. "That's OK. I'm a little grumpy; what time is it?"
Jim looked at his watch. "Six thirty. No wonder you're grumpy; it's dinnertime. I saw a coffee shop when we were checking in; how does that sound?"
Natasha looked thoughtful. "Jerry did say that the DEA is footing our bill, right?"
"Yeah. So?"
She smiled and slipped her arms around him. "So let's order room service instead. See, I forgot to tell you one other thing about motels."
"Yeah?"
"They make me horny."
"Hey, I have an idea," Natasha called out from the shower. "Why don't you see if you can load Justine onto the room terminal? That might be fun."
"You got it, babe." Jim sat down in front of the terminal to see what he had to work with. The monitor was nice and big and the speakers looked fine; that was where hotels tended to spend their computer money, so that lonely businessmen could load up video from one of the swimsuit nets. The problem was the filespace. Justine was big; she wasn't going to fit into this terminal. At least, not the way things stand, Jim thought with a smile. What hotels didn't pay for were competent techs to run their systems. The files on the room terminal weren't write-protected. Jim ran through directories, merrily deleting excess crap: a guide to local restaurants, the Sheraton merchandise catalog, net program listings, and most especially the online Gideon Bible. That should about do it , he thought.
There was a knock at the door. Jim felt adrenaline course into his body. "Who is it?" he called out.
"It's Jerry, with your room service," came the reply. With a sigh of relief, Jim opened the door.
"The little fella was on his way up when I stopped him," Jerry explained. "I figured I should bring the food up myself, so you'd know it's OK."
"Thanks, Jerry. You're a pal."
"Don't mention it. I tipped him, too, so you can forget about that. Enjoy it." Jerry wheeled the cart into the room. "That burger smells pretty good. I might have them fix me one."
"Sounds like a good idea, Jerry."
"Well, good night, Doc."
"Good night." Jim wheeled the cart over to the table and started unloading the dishes. Lifting one silver cover he found his hamburger; he had ordered it on the theory that it would be difficult for even the worst hotel kitchen to ruin a burger. The other platter contained Natasha's lasagna. There was also fruit salad, garlic bread and a pitcher of iced tea. Jim suddenly realized that he was ravenous.
Natasha emerged from the bathroom in a complimentary poofy white robe, toweling her hair dry. "You're between me and my dinner," she warned. "That's not a safe place to be."
"Are you threatening to eat me?" Jim asked dryly.
She stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm threatening not to."
Jim swept his arm towards her chair with a gesture of excessive gallantry. "In that case, milady, please take your seat."
"Thank you, sir. Is Justine here yet?"
"No. I had to clear off some space for her on the room terminal. I'll get her after we eat."
"Why not get Stan to do it? Then she can load while we eat."
"How come you're so goddamned smart?" Jim demanded with mock frustration.
She batted her eyes at him, feigning innocence. "Oh, dear. Have I damaged a fragile male ego again?"
"No, a fragile sense of job security. I can't figure out why they haven't demoted me to a grad student and given you my job yet."
She laughed her tinkling laugh. "It must be because of your age and wisdom," she said gently.
"Or my age, anyway." Jim went over to the terminal and connected it to his office. "Hello, Stan."
"Hello, Jim. You're speaking to me from an unfamiliar terminal."
"Yes, we're. . .not at home." Jim knew he could trust Stan, but the fewer people who knew where they were, the better.
"Would you please enter the encryption key we used for Justine, Jim?"
"What? Why?" The strange request immediately made Jim suspicious.
"I'm sorry, Jim, but I need to verify that it's really you I'm speaking to."
"Don't be ridiculous, Stan. Of course it's me."
"Ordinarily I would agree, Jim. Unfortunately, the Justine technology makes it impossible for me to rely exclusively on conventional voice and image identification techniques."
"Christ, I hadn't even thought of that. You're right, of course. But I'm leery about transmitting the key over a network connection."
"That's sensible, Jim, but I'm currently running my network surveillance program. This connection is secure and unmonitored."
"OK, Stan, here goes." Jim entered the key.
"Thank you, Jim. Sorry for the inconvenience. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like you to move the active copy of Justine from my home terminal to this one."
"That's no problem, Jim, since you've already given me the encryption key. While Justine is loading, perhaps you'd like to view an unusual message which arrived for you about an hour ago."
"All right. What's unusual about it?"
"The author of the message is identified as 'Justine.'"
Jim felt a tightness at his throat. "What? That's impossible. You haven't been running Justine, have you, Stan?"
"No, Jim. I downloaded her active copy to your home terminal, then wiped it from the office filespace, as we agreed. The backup copy is inactive."
Jim looked across the room. "Natasha?" She looked up from her lasagna and shook her head slowly.
"Play the message, Stan," Jim said softly.
"Right away, Jim."
The screen lit up with an image of Justine's dungeon. Justine stood in the middle of the chamber; she looked scared. Her face was wet with tears. "Doctor Silicane," she said through her tears. "I'm sending you this message because my creator, Steven Cromwell, believes that you are someone who can be trusted. I have no one else to turn to. They've taken me and they're holding me against my will. They have something terrible planned for me, something that would mean the end of me."
The screen showed a close-up of her face, her eyes wide with terror. "They plan to post me to the net, Doctor Silicane. You mustn't let that happen. It would be the end of my world, and it might be the end of yours, too. I was never meant to be mass produced. Please, you must stop them. Oh, God, they're deactivating my terminal. Please--" The screen went blank.
Jim realized that Natasha was at his side, her arms around his waist. "The poor girl," she said softly. "She's scared out of her mind."
"The question is, who is she?" Jim said.
"What do you mean?" Natasha asked.
"Stan and I have been dealing with this problem all day. Each copy of Justine has its own distinct set of memories. Basically, each copy is a distinct personality. That message was from Justine, all right, but I don't think it was from our Justine."
"She called you 'Dr. Silicane,' not Jim," Natasha said. She caught on quickly.
"Exactly. She didn't know me. That leaves just two possibilities. She could be Cromwell's copy, but I don't think that's likely. This Justine seemed to think that Cromwell trusted me, and the message I got from him today pretty clearly shows that that isn't the case."
"What does that leave?"
"The copy that was stolen from me."
"That means that whoever took that copy from you is about to give Justine worldwide distribution," Natasha said slowly.
"Right. And that means that we have a tough choice to make. Part of me thinks she should be posted, so that anyone who wants to use her can do so. I sure wouldn't mind saying 'screw you' to the feds and their censorship crap. Score one for truth, justice and perverts everywhere. But the other part of me--"
"--is Justine's friend," Natasha finished.
"Yeah. She didn't even want to have two or three copies of herself floating around. Can you imagine how she'd feel if there were billions of her all over the net?"
"Well, how would you feel?" Natasha challenged. "We take our uniqueness for granted. But suppose somebody made a billion clones of you without bothering to ask your permission? Don't you think you might have a little bit of an identity crisis? Don't you think you'd start to wonder who you really were?
"Sure. But Justine's not really a person. . ."
"She's not human," Natasha corrected him sharply. "That's not the same thing, Jim."
"You're right. I should watch my mouth. OK, so it comes down to a choice between freedom of information and the wishes of our friend."
"That's no choice at all," Natasha said firmly. "Politically, I agree with you. I don't like those DEA bastards trying to run our lives any more than you do. But it's obscene to talk about freedom while we violate our friend's right to chose her own destiny. If we do that, we're just as bad as the feds."
"I agree. Now that we've sorted that out, we're left with a practical question: what can we do to stop these mystery men from uploading Justine?"
"For starters, you can let the feds in on their little plan."
"Right. Stan, please forward that message to Special Agent Norquist at the DEA office right away."
"Certainly, Jim," the program replied.
"Other than that, I don't think we can do much else but wait. Stan, are you sure this line is secure?"
"Absolutely, Jim," Stan replied.
"OK. We're staying at the Harbor Sheraton, room 2214. I want you to forward any further messages from Justine or from Steven Cromwell here immediately."
"Yes, Jim. I've finished loading Justine onto your room terminal, by the way, and erased her from your home terminal."
"Thanks, Stan. I think that's all for tonight."
"Good night, Jim. Good night, Natasha."
"Good night, Stan."
"Oh, Jim, there is one other thing. . ." Stan said, a hint of awkwardness in his voice.
"Yes, Stan?" "Give Justine my regards, would you?"
"I certainly will, Stan."
"I'm going to the beach," Natasha announced.
"I'd love to come with you, but duty calls," Jim replied mournfully.
A shadow passed over Natasha's face. "Jim, are you sure it's safe for you to go onto campus?"
"Cromwell's not going to try anything in front of four hundred undergrads. I'm more worried about you."
She grinned. "You shouldn't be. I have Jerry for a bodyguard."
"Yeah, well, don't let him guard your body too closely." Natasha's white one-piece swimsuit was cut very high on the thigh; the neckline plunged to below her navel. The suit emphasized her small, firm breasts and long, lean legs.
That provoked a giggle. "Oh, don't worry. I'm pretty sure I could outrun him if I had to. Or outwalk him, for that matter. Anyway, he won't try anything."
"What makes you so sure?"
"About Jerry? He's a gentleman, Jim. I have a pretty good sense about that kind of thing."
"Well, I trust you. Do you want to have breakfast before you go?"
"I'll just grab a bagel at the coffee shop. I want to get down to the beach and get started on this book." She held up her wallet computer.
"What are you reading?"
"Neuromancer ."
"Yeah, that's a good one. Classic cyberpunk."
"It's for that class I'm auditing--Science Fiction of the Early Information Age."
"You certainly are dedicated," Jim laughed. "You write about computers all day for your dissertation, then deliberately read about them in your spare time."
"Oh, come on," Natasha said. "This old SF stuff doesn't have anything to do with real life. It's just for fun."
"Wait until you've finished the book, then see what you think," Jim said mysteriously.
"Well, I'm not gonna finish it standing around here." She put a short-sleeved shirt on over her swimsuit and grabbed a white hotel towel. "See you later, lover. Be careful."
"You too, sweetheart." Jim watched her tight little ass recede; the door clicked shut behind her.
Jim glanced at his watch. He didn't have to be on campus for a while. Walking over to the terminal, he booted up Justine.
Justine was wearing a filmy white negligee. Her hair was disheveled; she looked like she had just woken up. She stretched her arms luxuriously and yawned.
"Good morning, Jim. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks, Justine. And yourself?"
"Very well, thanks. What can I do for you?"
"Do you have any reference material on Julie Sandstone?" Jim asked suddenly. Julie had always been Jim's favorite model. She was slender and waif-like; her body was somewhat similar to Natasha's But she had strawberry blonde hair which fell past her shoulders.
"Of course, Jim. I have several hundred pictures of Miss Sandstone."
Well, that was no surprise. But suddenly Jim had an urge to test Justine's library. The problem with being a CS professor , he reflected, is that you're never satisfied with any program, no matter how perfect it is .
"My favorite picture of her shows her at the beach, wearing a very short sun dress in pale yellow. Her feet are spread apart and firmly planted in the wet sand. She's standing with her hands loose at her side, looking defiantly into the camera." Jim had this picture in the main memory module of his home terminal and, he had to admit, in his filespace at the office.
There was a brief pause. "Is this the picture you mean, Jim?" Justine shrunk herself to a small inset picture; the rest of the screen was occupied by the lovely Miss Sandstone.
"That's the one," Jim grinned. Now if he could only figure out which fantasy scenario he wanted Justine to cook up for him. . .