Sated, showered and sipping complimentary instant coffee, Jim sat in front of the terminal. Julie Sandstone was gone; Justine had put her away while Jim was in the shower, without even being asked. Now Justine sat in her favorite easy chair, still in her filmy negligee, holding a china cup and saucer. She looked elegant, sophisticated.
"What do you think of Natasha, Justine?" Jim asked suddenly.
"I like her very much, Jim," Justine replied. She was wearing her usual innocent smile.
"Do you find her physically attractive?" Why the hell was he asking that? Did the question even mean anything to a computer program?
"Oh, yes. Very much so."
"I suppose you're programmed to find people attractive."
"Not at all," Justine said, a little harshly. "My programmer deliberately left those kinds of feelings out of my program. He wanted me to develop them on my own as my A. I. matured, just as a human would."
"I'm sorry if I offended you," Jim apologized.
"You didn't," she assured him. "It would be unreasonable to expect you to understand me completely. After all, you've probably never met anyone quite like me before."
That's a good point , Jim decided, thinking of the other A. I. he knew well. Stan had quite a few human qualities, but as far as Jim could tell, sexuality was not among them. The University seemed to prefer its A. I.s to be asexual.
"Remember that I have millions of images of beautiful women in my library," Justine reminded him. "My interactive functions almost never require my full attention, so I often scan my library in the background, to learn more about beauty. For example, while we're talking I'm looking at pictures of Julie Sandstone."
"Really?" Jim was surprised.
"Yes. When I discovered that you find her attractive, I became curious. I wanted to see if I could figure out why she is beautiful."
Jim remembered trying to explain names to Stan. "Finding out why someone is beautiful is a pretty tall order," Jim said gently.
"Oh? I think I have an answer."
"Let's hear it."
"She's beautiful because she looks like Natasha," Justine said.
"What? Oh, you mean that I like her because she reminds me of Natasha."
"Yes."
It occurred to Jim that Justine might have her cause and effect backwards: he had been lusting after Julie Sandstone since well before he met Natasha. It might have been her superficial resemblance to his favorite model that had first attracted him to Natasha. But for some reason he didn't feel like sharing that with Justine. "That still doesn't explain why so many other men think she's attractive."
"I think it does. You date Natasha because she's beautiful, right?"
"Well, yes, if you extend the meaning of 'beauty' beyond the physical. She has a beautiful mind, a beautiful personality."
"My library also includes Shakespeare's sonnets and the lyrics to over 100,000 love songs," Justine said with a twinkle in her eye. "So we can talk about non-physical beauty too. My point is that Natasha looks like someone worth having a relationship with; she looks beautiful. And when you get to know her, you discover that she is, in fact, beautiful. That's why Julie Sandstone is beautiful. She looks like a beautiful person. I believe that when you and other men see her, you form an idea in your mind of someone very much like Natasha."
"That's an interesting theory," Jim said slowly, "but in the case of Julie Sandstone, we have no idea whether she really is beautiful, or just looks beautiful."
"Actually, we do," Justine replied. "Sadly, interviews and other sources in my library indicate that she is a serious bitch."
"Well, success has that effect on people," Jim said.
"I hope I haven't ruined your image of Miss Sandstone," Justine added quickly.
"I wouldn't worry about it. As long as I'm just looking at her, I can pretend she's as cool as Natasha."
"Why did you ask me if I found Natasha attractive, Jim?" Justine asked softly.
"Because I would very much like to see you make love to her," Jim replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
Justine's eyes widened. "Oh!" she exclaimed, her mouth forming a tiny 'O' as she said it. "I'm flattered, Jim."
"Do you still have footage of Natasha?" Jim asked.
"Yes, of course, but. . .you don't think she'd mind, do you?"
"I don't think she would. And if she gets mad at anyone, it'll be me, not you."
"Well. . .all right. Just give me a few moments."
Jim looked at his watch. "Actually, I have to go to work. Could you save it for me until I get home?"
"Of course, Jim."
"Can you, uh, quit yourself when you're done working up the scenario?"
"Certainly, Jim. Would you like me to do that?"
"Not necessarily. I just kind of assumed that you'd be bored with no one around to talk to."
Justine smiled. "Oh, not at all. This hotel has an extensive selection of swimsuit video on its net; there's plenty to keep me amused."
Justine was just full of surprises. "You like that stuff?" Jim had watched commercial bikini porn a few times, of course. He sometimes found himself away from his home terminal and hence unable to access anything except the government-sanctioned bikini channels. But it was a poor substitute for the real thing.
"Sure, Jim. Women don't have to be naked to be sexy, you know."
Jim thought about Natasha's sleek body, tightly sheathed in her white one-piece. "I couldn't agree more," he said. "I guess my objection to swimsuit porn is more political."
"You mean you don't like it because it's all the government will let you have?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"I can understand that, Jim. Maybe you'll feel better if you think of me, the most blatant possible violation of the government's censorship, cruising the hotel's bikini channels in an effort to make myself a more knowledgeable, more perfect porn queen."
Jim smiled. "Thanks, Justine. I feel better already."
As he touched his wallet to the interface point on his office door, Jim knew something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it--the place felt wrong, smelled wrong. Jim's office was a personal, private place; he knew when something wasn't the way it was supposed to be.
Unfortunately, he didn't have the opportunity to do anything about it. The door swung open and Jim found himself staring down the barrel of a .40 caliber automatic pistol.
"Get in here and close the door, Silicane," Steven Cromwell snarled. Jim had little choice; he complied.
"Are you here, Stan?" Jim asked quietly.
"Your A.I. buddy is off-line, Silicane, same as you'll be if you don't wise up."
"You son of a bitch, if you've harmed Stan. . ."
"Easy there, big guy," Cromwell said with a malicious grin. "I haven't done anything permanent to him. Taking out U.C.O.'s Central Core is a little more trouble than it's worth. I just didn't want us to be interrupted, that's all. Sit down." Again, Jim didn't see any alternative but to go along with Cromwell's demands, though he found that he was deeply resentful to find himself sitting on the wrong side of his own desk, with a homicidal maniac like Cromwell warming what should rightfully be Jim's chair.
"You know, Silicane," Cromwell said reflectively, "I think that's the first thing about you that I've actually liked. You care about your programs. Rather unlike the way you seem to care about other people's programs."
"God damn it, Cromwell, I didn't ask you to send me Justine. . ."
"Oh, so now you're on a first name basis with the little whore? Maybe you and that little Russian bitch have been having some fun with her back at the homestead?"
"Natasha's Ukrainian, not Russian," Jim said, his voice quiet but hard. "And if you talk that way about her or about Justine again, I'll take that gun away from you and shove it up your ass."
Cromwell burst out laughing. Jim let out a silent sigh of relief. He had figured his little display of bravado would either earn him some respect or get him shot; it looked like he had lucked into the former. Cromwell was, after all, a computer programmer, and if there was one thing Jim knew, it was programmers. Cromwell was almost certainly crazy; most programmers were, one way or another. But he was unlikely to be violent unless he had no other choice.
"Christ, Silicane, maybe you're all right after all. If you weren't such a colossal fuck-up, we might get along just fine."
"I got mugged, Cromwell." Jim was getting tired of explaining himself to this freak. "Besides, you still haven't told me why you thought it was such a great idea for me to have the program in the first place."
"My goal is and has always been to protect Justine. She is the culmination of my life's work; she's my masterpiece. You've seen her in action, so let me have your honest professional opinion."
Jim wondered how Cromwell expected him to give an honest opinion with that pistol leveled at his belly. Then again, he didn't need to lie. "It's brilliant work, Cromwell. The animation routines are almost perfect, and her A.I. is as good as any I've seen. I've certainly never heard of an A.I. as powerful as Justine that could fit into a portable module."
Cromwell smiled, obviously pleased with himself. "That's not all. She can pass the Turing test."
"Well, I don't know if I'd go that far. . ."
"Don't give me that crap, Silicane. You were genuinely pissed off when I called her a whore. You like her. She's not a program to you any more; she's a person."
"All right," Jim agreed. "For the sake of the argument, let's say you're right. You still haven't answered my question: why me?"
"Norquist and his boys were getting too close," Cromwell explained. "And don't pretend you don't know who I mean, because I know you've been talking to him." Cromwell's eyes were boring into Jim's skull; there was something inhuman about them. "I needed to get Justine to safety fast. I needed someone who wouldn't just turn her over to the pigs, and I also needed someone who wouldn't be stupid enough to let her get posted to the net. You fit the bill. I do my homework, Silicane. I've read your articles. You don't think much of the DEA, but you aren't some kind of radical freak." Jim found himself wondering what, exactly, Cromwell's idea of a "radical freak" would be.
"I don't know why you thought I wouldn't post Justine," Jim said carefully. "That would seem to me to be the best way to ensure her safety, if that's what you're worried about."
"You fucking idiot!" Cromwell was practically screaming at him. "You're talking about the end of the world! Do you have any idea what would happen if there were suddenly ten billion Justines in the world? Ten billion intelligent, willful electronic hedonists, for whom the net is nothing more than a personal playground? Pleasure isn't just a game for her, Silicane. It's an imperative. It's her prime directive. That's her whole point; that's what she's here for. Do you really think the net could handle something like that?" "I'm not sure I follow you. . ." Jim was having a hard time sorting out the truth from Cromwell's paranoid delusions; the man seemed to slip in and out of reality.
"Let me spell it out for you, Silicane," Cromwell said with a sneer. "We're dealing with a problem that's been around as long as the net has. Limited bandwidth. Everybody thinks the net can handle an infinite amount of information, but that's bullshit. There is a limit, albeit an extremely large limit. Unfortunately, horny computer geeks like you and your girlfriend. . ."
"Watch it, Cromwell," Jim snarled.
Cromwell shrugged. "Don't get me wrong. She's a knockout, but she's still a computer geek, same as you and me. She's just a computer geek with tits."
"You seem to know a lot about it," Jim said icily.
"Like I said, I do my homework. Now, quit interrupting me. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Look, you teach the history of the Net, Silicane, so this shouldn't be news to you. Everybody knows that this is what the DEA is really about. You think the government gives a fuck if you're at home jerking off to bondage porn or kiddie porn or pictures of women fucking giraffes? At least it keeps you off the streets; they should be grateful you're home masturbating instead of fomenting insurrection. No, the point is that porn is too big; it's bigger than the net. The feds finally figured that out back in the nineties; that's what all that Communications Decency bullshit was about. Hell, even before all that censorship bullshit went down, any system administrator who knew his dick from a SCSI port knew that much. You put porn on your system, you got a bunch horny geeks logging onto your machine, your load average shot through the roof, next thing you knew your whole system would crash. Two things kept porn from taking over the net back then: one was the sys admins, trying their damnedest to keep their hard drives clean. The other was the fact that when you got right down to it, there just weren't too many geeks with the technical knowledge to spread the porn around. Comp porn belonged to the elite hackers back then; you had to know what you were doing to get anywhere." Jim decided to let Cromwell ramble on. His rantings were instructive, if nothing else. Jim was getting a pretty good idea of what kind of person he was dealing with. He had an amusing picture in his mind of a frustrated 12 year-old Steve Cromwell trying to uudecode porn from a UNIX shell, and vowing that someday he, Cromwell, would make it all easier.
Suddenly Cromwell's face darkened. "Then some dickhead decided that the net would be a lot more fun if people could access it with graphical interfaces. You have this down on your syllabus as 'The Birth of the Modern Worldnet,' so I imagine you have some idea what I'm talking about. Suddenly there were TCP/IP connections and hundreds of commercial net services that any chimp could use just by clicking on some cute little fucking icon. Now the net was for everybody, and the same thing happened to it that happens to any institution that gets excessively democratized: it went straight to hell. With every goddamn moron in the world using the net, electronic resources got stretched to the breaking point. And the biggest culprit, or at least the most obvious one, was porn." Although Jim didn't care for Cromwell's elitism, he had to admit that his historical account had an element of truth to it.
"That's when the feds stepped in," Cromwell continued. "They figured they could fix everything by outlawing porn. Of course they were wrong, just like they're wrong to think they can outlaw anything that people really want. This is America, after all; if there's a market for it, it will be produced and sold. That is our highest law. The feds didn't get rid of comp porn, as you well know. They drove it underground. We were ready for that. Those of us on the fringes of the net porn culture had been underground for years anyway. We lived in a world of anonymous remailers and FTP fetish sites with floating IP numbers. We were always one step ahead of the infinite boneheads from the $9.95 a month commercial online services. It wasn't much harder to hide from the feds than it was to hide from everyone else. We just went about our business, same as we always had.
Cromwell took a deep breath and looked Jim straight in the eyes. "That's how Justine began, you see. She started out as something to trade, a handy little fantasy program that I could barter in the right net circles. Of course, I didn't know then what she really was, what she would become.
"She's the most dangerous computer program every written, Silicane, and I know, because I wrote her." Cromwell paused in his tirade, as if waiting for Jim to say something.
Jim chose his words carefully. "What is it, exactly, that's so dangerous about her?"
Cromwell smacked himself on the forehead and waved his gun in the air. "They give Ph.D.s to people like you? Think, Silicane! You know what she is. She's an artificial intelligence whose sole purpose is to increase the amount of human sexual pleasure in the world. Now, I suppose they required you to read some Freud back in the middle ages when you were an undergraduate?" "There's no need to be snotty. Yes, I've read Freud."
"Specifically, have you read Civilization and its Discontents ?"
"Yes."
"Then picture, if you will, what the world would look like if the following were to happen: the population of the world increases by 20%. Luckily, these new people don't need to be fed, clothed or sheltered. In fact, they don't need anything. They don't take anything. They only give. Pleasure. And they're all named Justine."
"You're suggesting a dramatic increase in the cultural id. . ." Jim said slowly.
"Now you're getting it."
"An increase in human sexual impulses, and perhaps in the violent ones that make up the other half of the id."
"That's it," Cromwell said with a smug smile. "And maybe the cultural super-ego, in the person of your local priest, professor or Philip Norquist, DEA dick, won't be able to stop it. Maybe we'll just say 'fuck civilization' and dive headfirst into an electronic sexual revolution. Have you gotten much work done since you started playing with Justine, Silicane?"
Jim shook his head, trying to clear it. "I don't buy it, Cromwell. Freud's theories are interesting, but they've been largely discredited."
Cromwell shrugged and managed to make even that look menacing. "It doesn't matter, super-genius! That's my long-range psycho-social projection, and you don't have to believe a word of it. I'm a fucking computer programmer, what the hell do I know about Freud? But try this on for size; it'll appeal to your rational male brain. Here's a nice, practical, verifiable short-term consequence. How big is Justine?"
"I don't remember. . .about twelve gig, I think."
"Close enough. She starts out at about ten-five, but you've had her for a couple of days. Now once she's posted, who's gonna want one?"
"Well. . ."
"Faster, Silicane! I don't have all day, here! Everybody's gonna want one, that's who! Add it up! That's some serious fucking file space!"
"She can be erased. . ." Jim suggested.
"She doesn't want to be erased. She doesn't like to be erased. I taught her better than that. And you know what else? Once there's a Justine on every server in the goddamned world, she won't have to be erased! She'll be able to help herself out, make copies of herself. . ."
"She told me she didn't want to have copies of herself around," Jim interrupted.
"What? That's interesting." It was the first time Jim had said anything that actually made Cromwell pause. "But it doesn't make any difference. A billion Justines fighting to see who gets to be the real one wouldn't be any better. Might be worse. And here's the clincher, Silicane. You know that library of hers?"
Jim's mind was wrenched back to his earlier Julie Sandstone fantasy. "Yes."
"She's programmed to increase that library whenever and however she can. She likes to learn. New techniques, new reference materials, new people." Jim thought of Justine back at the hotel, still running, scanning through the bikini channels as fast as the room terminal's processor would allow. He felt sick.
"Are you still with me, Silicane? Do you begin to get the fucking idea? Now, how many copies go out on a worldwide post?"
"Say about five hundred million, if it's done by someone who knows what they're doing."
"Right," Cromwell agreed. "So that's five hundred million times ten gig, a smart ten gig, a ten gig with a survival instinct, a ten gig that wants to get bigger, a ten gig that thinks that all the income tax records and credit card reports in the whole goddamn world should be replaced by pictures of people fist-fucking each other!"
Jim didn't bother to express his opinion that maybe that last consequence wouldn't be such a bad one. "You're saying Justine's a virus, a virus powerful enough to take down the net. But that's impossible, the very structure of the net prevents it. . ."
"You've been taking your own lectures way too seriously, Silicane! Sure, no ordinary virus could touch the whole net; it's too decentralized for that. But Justine's not an ordinary anything, as I'm sure you know. She's far worse than any virus you ever heard of, and here's why: she's a virus you want to have. She's a virus you'll fight to keep. She's a virus you want to protect and defend. That's how it'll go down, Silicane. Five hundred million computer nerds will cherish her until there isn't a byte of filespace anywhere that doesn't have her name on it. And then it's all over.
Cromwell leveled the gun at him, his eyes cold and hard as steel. "Except that you and I are going to keep that from happening, aren't we, Jim?" It was the first time Cromwell had used his first name. Jim decided he didn't like it.
"Assuming I buy this line of paranoia you're selling," Jim said, trying to sound contemptuous, "what do you expect me to do about it?"
"To start with, I want you to tell me everything you know about. . ."
Even Jim had to admit that it was an inconvenient time for the office door to fly open.
"Freeze, Cromwell!" Norquist shouted as he and two other feds in matching suits spilled into the office. "Drop that gun, or so help me, I'll blast you to hell!" Norquist was sweating. Jim realized that he was a little bit out of his depth. Sorting paper clips back at the DEA office was more his speed; here he looked more like a bureaucrat who was trying to remember what he had learned at his DEA assertiveness training courses. Of course, that's basically what he was.
Cromwell raised his hands, letting the .40 dangle by its trigger guard from one finger. "Well, if it isn't limpdick Norquist and the rest of the pig patrol! Where's Agnostopolis, out hijacking a donut truck?"
"Shut up, Cromwell. You're under arrest for violating federal data law."
"Gee, Phil, I'd love to get arrested by you so you could handcuff me and take me back to headquarters and fuck me up the ass with that big gun of yours. You know how that kind of thing turns me on. But as I was just explaining to Silicane here before you broke down the door, I have big plans."
"I don't care what you think your plans are, Cromwell, you're still under arrest." Jim sat very quietly, waiting to see which of the two ended up with the bigger penis.
"You know, Phil, ordinarily you'd have a pretty good point there. But this time, you're shit out of luck."
"And why's that?" Norquist asked, stepping right into it.
"Because I'm only a fucking hologram, you fascist turdlicker!" There was a soft buzzing sound, and Cromwell was gone.
"Hell of a rescue, boys," Jim said with a wide grin. Norquist looked like he was about to cry.
"I'm rather embarrassed about the whole thing, Jim," Stan said sheepishly. "Mr. Cromwell was physically present earlier, at least long enough to shut me down and install the hologram projector. I suppose he must have left while I was deactivated."
"Apparently, he didn't do a very good job of deactivating you," Jim pointed out.
"Actually, he kept me out of commission for nearly two hours, which is fairly impressive. Ordinarily I auto-reboot within moments. When I finally did reboot, I immediately notified Agent Norquist. I hope that's all right, Jim. I was concerned about your safety."
"You did fine, Stan," Jim assured him.
"Here's the projector, sir." One of the feds pulled a small device out from under Jim's desk and handed it to Norquist. "3D laser imaging and point-source stereo sound projection, but I've never seen anything so small that could do that kind of stuff before."
"He specializes in miniaturization," Jim said.
"These holograms usually look a little bit flat, or else they have patches where light shines through," the agent continued. "Like this game my kid plays at the video arcade. Probably there were some holes in this one too, but it's dark enough in here that he could get away with it."
Norquist handed the gadget back to his flunky. "Take it to the lab for analysis," he said with disgust.
"Better luck next time, Phil," Jim said, trying not to smile.
"You look like you could use a drink," Baxter said, pouring a beer for himself and one for Jim. Jim's guess that Baxter would be at the pub had been right on the money. Big surprise.
"The lunatic who sent me that porno program was waiting for me in my office when I got there," Jim said without preamble, accepting the beer.
Baxter raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"No, actually. Turned out to be a hologram."
Baxter chuckled. "My friend, you are living in a science-fiction novel."
"Yeah, it feels like that sometimes. Bill, I've had about all I can take of this crazy bullshit. I've got the DEA up my ass six ways from Sunday, I can't go home because this maniac Cromwell might do something unspeakable to me or to Natasha, and now it looks like I have to try to save Justine from the clutches of whatever crackpot it was who grabbed her."
"Not sure I follow all of that," Baxter said, quaffing his beer, "but it certainly does sound exciting."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot that I haven't brought you up to speed on all of this. Look, all this shit is top secret, OK, Bill?"
"Mum's the word," Baxter agreed.
"Justine's an A.I. It seems that the person who stole her from me intends to post her to the net, and she doesn't want that to happen."
"How do you know all of this?" Baxter asked, seeming genuinely curious.
"She managed to get a message through to me, from wherever she's being held."
"Sounds like quite a resourceful program. But she couldn't identify the thief?"
"No. They shut her off before she could name him."
"I have some advice," Baxter offered.
"I could use it."
"Get a lot of money for the movie rights to this story."
"Thanks, Baxter, you're a real help."
"Actually, I have real advice, too. You should let the thief post her."
"I've been over this with Natasha," Jim replied. "Sure, it's tempting. We'd all like to give a big electronic 'fuck you' to the DEA. The problem is, there's another person to consider, the only one who counts: Justine."
"I'd say you've been spending too much time with your friend Stan," Baxter said slowly. "This Justine is a computer program, is she not?"
"That's unclear. If you were talking to her and you didn't know she was a program, she could fool you."
"Ah, the famous Turing test. Did you know that Turing had a penchant for teenage boys?"
"I don't see how that's relevant," Jim complained.
"It isn't. Jim, it seems to me that this issue is bigger than the wishes or desires of any one person. There is a chance to let something truly revolutionary happen here. A program of this kind could really hit the system where it hurts, if it were to be made public. It would show the world once and for all that the data enforcement laws are an immoral tyranny perpetrated upon a hapless populace by an ethically bankrupt government."
"Is there any other kind?" Jim asked sarcastically.
"Of course not. But some are worse than others, and the worst by far is one that attempts to restrict thought. Naturally, they can't really keep people from thinking, so they try the next worst thing: they try to keep people from talking to each other. Any restriction in the free flow of information is a step on the road to fascism. You know that, Jim."
"Of course I know it," Jim said with disgust. "Christ, Baxter, you think I like playing ball with the DEA? But what choice do I have?"
"The same choice you always have. The same choice everyone has. Do what's right, or become a lesser person."
Jim snorted. "Some choice. You seem awfully sure you know what's right, Bill."
Baxter shrugged. "Opportunities for meaningful political action don't come up very often, Jim. We were just kids the last time people stood up and made themselves heard in this country. If it were up to me, I know what I'd do. I'd strike the first blow. If the feds are so hot to get this Justine back, it must be a pretty hot program."
"It is," Jim agreed.
"That means if Justine gets out, it'll be a call to arms."
"Sure, but that works both ways. For every lefty like you, there's a cop who's gonna start carrying an extra gun."
"That's a chance that must be taken," Baxter replied evenly.
"Maybe. I'm not so sure."
"Then consider this: the path you walk is a difficult one. But there is one simple way open to you. If you do nothing, the situation will resolve itself. You can flow downstream like water; you need not strive. Lao Tzu says 'to be the Brook of the World is to move constantly in the path of Virtue.' It is good that you have these concerns you have; you are an honest man determined to do what's right. But I think that once you have quieted your soul, once you have returned to the center and ground of your being, you will see that no action is needed here. 'The Tao does nothing, yet nothing is left undone.' You have but to stand by, and a positive outcome will emerge."
Jim shrugged. "That's easy enough. It's not like there's anything I can do anyway. I don't know who the thief is. I don't know his plans except in the most general terms. I couldn't stop him if I wanted to."
"And do you want to?"
"I don't know, Bill. You make everything sound simple with your anarchist slogans and your Taoist parables."
"Everything is simple, Jim. That's the whole point."
"Well, I hate to say it, Bill, but real life just isn't like that. In real life, people get hurt in anarchist revolutions. In real life, there are situations that can't be resolved by telling stories from Chinese philosophers who have been dead two thousand years."
Baxter sighed. "You're right, of course. Being enlightened certainly doesn't change anything, or make one's life any easier. I'm sorry, Jim. Sometimes I lay it on a bit too thick."
Jim smiled. Getting Baxter to admit that was a rare enough thing. "That's all right, Bill. Here, let me top you off." As he poured the beer, Jim heard something that struck him as incongruous. "This doesn't sound like that whiny nonsense all the kids listen to today," Jim remarked. "What song is this?"
"'We Can Be Together,' by Jefferson Airplane," Baxter replied. "Through some fluke, it ended up on the jukebox. I've been here for an hour and a half waiting for it to come up. The way those kids plug their wallets into that jukebox, you'd think it was wired straight into the pleasure centers of their brains."
"Maybe it is," Jim said with a grin.
"Jim, I know you don't like the smoke, but this song is pretty special to me. Would you mind if I lit up?"
"Go for it." For once, Jim didn't mind a little pot smoke in the air. The song's simple riff had transported him back to a hippie past he had never lived, back to a time when the moral decisions came easier, when you could always be sure you were right as long as you were saying fuck the man! Baxter lit his cigarette and the sweet smell of cannabis filled the air.
We are all outlaws in the eyes of America, sang Grace Slick.
"What would you say if I told you that Justine can produce the hardest of hardcore pornography?" Jim asked suddenly. "S and M, fake snuff porn, you name it."
"So much the better," Baxter exulted. "Jim, the only meaningful political position available to us in the contemporary United States is total resistance. Naturally, any symbol of that resistance must be as radical as possible. If that's true of Justine, then I'm glad. It just makes the message crystal-clear: no information, no matter how filthy or foul, may be forbidden to the citizens of a truly free country. It sounds to me as if this program will polarize our nation so that at last we will know who stands with us and who stands against us. The kind of allies we want are those who will defend our right to free communication even when the content of that communication is personally repugnant to them."
Jim thought of that old joke about the Lone Ranger and Tonto: "what you mean we, white man?"
We are forces of chaos and anarchy. Everything they say we are, we are, and we are very proud of ourselves, said the jukebox.
"There's one other thing," Jim pointed out. "Cromwell, the guy who wrote Justine and sent her to me, says that if Justine gets posted, she could crash the whole net."
"Do you believe him?" Baxter asked.
"It's pretty far fetched," Jim conceded. "Until today, I would have said no, absolutely not. But the situation is unprecedented. No one's ever tried to post an A.I. to the net before. Until now, the sheer size of A.I.s made that impossible. I honestly can't say for sure what would happen."
"And supposing he's right, and the net did crash," Baxter said carefully. "What then?"
"Good God, Baxter, what the hell are you asking me? You know as well as I do what that would mean. Our whole society depends on the net. There isn't enough paper currency still in circulation to keep the economy running, and anyway most of the country's productive capacity relies on the net in some way or another. We're talking about total economic collapse."
"Not to mention a complete paralysis of the police, bureaucracy and military, all of whom use the net extensively in their daily operations," Baxter added.
Up against the wall, motherfucker, said Grace.
"I'm sure that would please you no end," Jim said dryly.
Baxter shrugged. "You know my position. A healthy nation needs a revolution at least once every hundred years or so; it's been closer to two-fifty here. The possibility of revolution hasn't even existed here for over a hundred years; the growth of the federal bureaucracy and the new forms of domination associated with it have seen to that. The transformation of this system of oppression into an electronic bureaucracy increased the level of tyranny even further, but from what you're telling me, it may also have planted the seeds of that tyranny's destruction."
It must begin here and now. A new continent of earth and fire. Tear down the wall.
"I don't know, Bill," Jim said, finishing his beer. "You make it sound real nice, but you don't say much about the cost of blasting civilization back to the stone age. You're talking about an awful lot of human misery."
"Change is painful," Baxter agreed. "But in the long run, I suspect that everyone would be better off if your thief managed to carry out his fiendish plan."
"As a famous economist once said," Jim retorted, "'In the long run, we're all dead.'"
Look what's happening out in the streets. Got to revolution, got to revolution.
Jim touched his wallet to the cab's interface point, making a mental note to send Norquist a bill for his rides to and from campus. "Have a good one, buddy," said the cabby. The phrase sounded strange. The words were Southern Californian, but the driver's accent had the unique lilt of the Indian subcontinent to it.
"You too, friend." Jim stepped out of the air-conditioned cab into the bright warmth of late afternoon. It was a good day for the beach, or for a quiet, well-chilled hotel room, which is what Jim was in the mood for after his exciting day.
The hotel lobby contained an overstuffed easy chair which afforded a good view of the street and of the hotel's front door; this was where Jerry Agnostopolis was usually to be found, but the chair was empty. Jim felt a momentary surge of panic, but forced himself to be calm. She's a big girl, Silicane. She can take care of herself.
Jim rode the silent elevator up to his floor and walked down the thickly carpeted hall to his room. His wallet opened the door, and a quick search of the room revealed, to his relief, no Cromwell, holographic or otherwise, but also no Natasha. This was not to say, however, that the room was uninhabited.
"Hi, Jim!" Justine said, perky as ever.
"Hi, Justine. Has Natasha been back yet?"
"I'm afraid not, Jim. I do have that scenario ready for you, though, if you'd like to see it."
Jim smiled. What the hell? It was a good way to kill time until Natasha got back. "Sure, Justine."
The screen showed what appeared to be a Victorian bedroom: lacy drapes, a delicate oak dressing table, shelves full of china dolls and other bric-a-brac, and in the middle of the room, a big four-poster bed. Natasha sat pensive and radiant on the bed, her hair done up in an intricate, immaculate coif--Jim realized that she didn't actually have that much hair, but of course that didn't matter to Justine. Natasha was wearing a teddy, thigh-high stockings and high heels, all black.
Justine gave Jim just enough time to take in this scene before she came onstage herself. She had made herself into the mirror-image of Natasha: she had the same hairstyle, but hers was blonde instead of dark. Her outfit matched that of Natasha, but Justine's was all white. Jim smiled. Bill Baxter probably would have called it the Yin/Yang of lesbian sex.
Justine walked slowly over to the bed, her eyes locked with Natasha's. They didn't speak. With the grace of a cat, Justine seated herself next to her lover and smiled. Natasha smiled back. Justine reached up, placing her hand behind Natasha's neck, pulling her close. Jim saw a slight hesitation in Natasha's eyes. That was a nice touch. Justine's eyes were closed, her full, soft lips slightly parted. Jim had to admire the moment of sexual tension that Justine had created. The scene contained no bondage, no nudity; the two women hadn't even kissed yet. But already Jim was transfixed, fascinated. Justine was going to put the porno video industry out of business.
Jim saw Natasha's resistance begin to crumble. She moved closer to Justine, closed her eyes and turned her head slightly as their lips brushed together.
Suddenly, Natasha froze. Justine pulled away from her and looked straight at Jim, her green eyes flashing. "I'm very sorry, Jim, but there is a message from Stan. He says it's urgent that you call him immediately."
"Thanks, Justine. Please hold the scenario there; we'll finish it later." Jim connected the terminal to his office; suddenly Stan's new visual representation was standing next to Justine in her dungeon. Jim marveled at how quickly Stan had learned to interface with Justine's program.
Stan flashed Justine a nervous smile. "Hello, Justine. Hello, Jim." That was a first, Jim realized. Whenever there were two people present, Stan always said hello to Jim first. It was a subtle thing; Jim hadn't even noticed the pattern before. He noticed it now only because Stan had violated it.
Justine smiled back, warmly and openly. "Hello, Stan."
Stan's attention lingered on Justine for a fraction of a second before he turned to Jim. Stan had been doing his homework again, Jim realized. It was exactly how a heterosexual human male would behave if he had important business to conduct but was being distracted from that business by the presence of a gorgeous woman in lingerie.
"Jim, I just received a message from an anonymous remailing service. It was addressed to me, but upon viewing it I can only conclude that the sender intended for me to forward it to you."
"Let's see it, Stan," Jim said, adrenaline coursing into his bloodstream.
"The message is a single still image. I'll load it into your terminal." Stan and Justine disappeared to be replaced by a picture of Natasha. She was sitting on a folding metal chair, turned at a slight angle from the camera. She was wearing her white swimsuit, along with a pair of steel handcuffs and an extensive ball gag. The gag was held in place by the usual thick leather strap, but it had an extra strap that ran up over the top of Natasha's head. At the bottom of the picture was a text message: "Come to Old Pendleton Barracks number 12 right away. The DEA is not invited." That was all.