from a couple of decades ago. Jim had forgotten his name.Jim was unable to put any of this into words. He realized that he must be in shock. Too much had happened to him today. Too many surprises, too much chaos. He wasn't used to it; he didn't have the strength. He hadn't asked for this life. He suddenly found himself that thing would return to the way they had been: his boring lectures, Natasha, Baxter as his kooky but harmless anarchist friend. Wasn't that the way things were supposed to be? It didn't matter, of course. The world didn't give a fuck how things were "supposed to be."
They entered a large, bare room with no windows. A single bulb created a cone of light in the center of the room. In that cone sat Natasha, on the folding metal chair Jim had seen in the picture. But she was neither handcuffed nor gagged, and she had a t-shirt on over her swimsuit. Jim recognized it as one of Baxter's; it was much too large for her, and it read "Fuck the Police," with a picture of a black musician from a couple of decades ago. Jim had forgotten his name.
"I hope I didn't scare you too much with that picture I sent," Baxter was saying, "but I needed to get your attention; I wanted to get you over here fast. So I had Justine whip that up for me. You must understand that I would never harm either one of you. I know you must be very angry with me, Jim, but I want you to understand that I still consider you to be my very good friend."
"You and I seem to have two different ideas of what 'friendship' means, Baxter," Jim said icily. Turning to Natasha, he asked, "Are you OK, sweetheart?"
Natasha nodded. "They haven't done anything to me. They just brought me here and told me we had to wait for you."
They? For the first time, Jim noticed that there was someone else in the room. Standing behind Natasha with his arms folded was a stocky man in his early twenties. He had short, straight black hair and a mustache. He was wearing black from head to toe; it was no wonder Jim hadn't noticed him. He looked like he wanted to be a ninja when he grew up.
"Jim, this is Brian, one of my graduate students. And a very promising one, I might add. He's been assisting me on this little project."
Jim's brain was working overtime, trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together. "You made a fake picture of Natasha to send me," he said slowly. "That means you have Justine."
"Right on the money, Dr. Silicane," Baxter agreed.
"Then it was you who mugged me in the forest, you son of a bitch. . ." Jim realized, his voice rising with anger.
"Actually, that was Brian," Baxter corrected. "And I must apologize for the lump on the head he gave you. That was directly contrary to my instructions." Baxter looked over at Brian, who glanced away sheepishly. "He was to retrieve the Justine module from you, but you were not to be harmed. That'll cost you an extra dissertation chapter, Brian, old boy." Brian scowled.
"You're the one Justine warned us about, the one Cromwell is after," Jim said in disbelief. "Christ, Bill. . ."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm afraid my image as a harmless academic crackpot is only a clever façade behind which lurks a somewhat more dangerous revolutionary. I really am sorry to spring this on you, Jim. I would have been perfectly happy to continue our friendship in its old mode. I've always found our little discussions to be intellectually and politically stimulating. But this is bigger than all that, you see."
"Why are we here?" Jim asked coldly.
"You are here," Baxter explained, "as a testament to your own resourcefulness and, I daresay, your stubbornness. Thanks to the unforeseen actions of that tricky Justine program, you had the clues that would have put you onto my trail. My own subtle efforts to dissuade you at the pub seemed to fall rather flat, so I was forced to bring you here, where I can keep an eye on you as I complete my plan. I can't afford any interference at this stage, Jim, and I can't say I've been encouraged by the company you've chosen to keep lately. I mean, really, the DEA? Couldn't you have conjured a less obviously repressive federal agency? It's too much to bear. I thought I had finally led you away from such sinister statism."
"All this time, you've been fucking with my head," Jim said softly.
"Nonsense!" Baxter roared. "Is it unethical to show someone the truth? I never washed your brain with anything stronger than the occasional pitcher of beer, Jim, or perhaps some secondary pot smoke. No, you arrived at your own conclusions about what I had to say."
"I have a question, Bill," Natasha said quietly.
"Certainly, my dear."
"You intend to post Justine to the net, is that correct?"
"I certainly do! The pigs shall not be permitted to keep information out of the hands of the American public."
"Then why haven't you done it yet?" Natasha asked simply.
"Well, it's not a simple procedure, as I'm sure you know. I'll only have one shot at this; as soon as the post goes out, I'll have the DEA all over me like a bad suit. That means I have to be sure to do it properly. To ensure maximum worldwide dispersal, I need to arrange simultaneous postings from a number of remailers."
"I think that's bullshit," Natasha said.
"I beg your pardon?" Baxter seemed genuinely at a loss.
"You heard me. I think you're delaying on purpose, because you know that what you're doing is wrong. I think you're stuck in a Chinese finger-trap you've built for yourself. You're letting your political beliefs control your actions, instead of listening to your heart." Jim gazed at his girlfriend in open admiration. While he was wasting time grousing about how Baxter had betrayed him, she was cutting to the chase. This was exactly the right sort of thing to say to someone like Baxter; who prided himself on his ethics. Such an accusation would force him to stop and consider his actions.
Baxter crossed his arms over his chest and looked thoughtful. "I'm afraid I can't agree with you. My political beliefs do flow from my heart; how could it be otherwise? The repressive state apparatus is out of harmony with the order of the universe; it must therefore be resisted so that we can achieve true, individual being."
"Yet to accomplish that, you're sacrificing the existence of an individual being," Natasha pointed out.
"What?" Baxter looked confused.
"Her name is Justine," Natasha explained.
"She's a computer program, Natasha," Baxter said, as if that explained everything.
"Talk to her, Bill," Jim said suddenly. He had another line he wanted to try. "She's young and innocent, unspoiled by the world. She lives for fun and laughter and good, healthy sex. She's. . ." Jim reached back in his memory. He and Baxter had talked about this a few months ago; it had to do with that business about Winnie the Pooh. "She's the 'uncarved block.' But not for long, Bill. When that post goes out, you're going to carve the hell out of her."
Suddenly Baxter burst out laughing. "Oh, that's wonderful, Jim! Really, it is! I'm so delighted to see I haven't been wasting my time all these months. You have been listening to me, haven't you? All right, now it's my turn. Have I told you the story of the turtle?"
"I don't think so," Jim said dubiously. Baxter probably had told him that one, along with every other damn story those ancient Chinese philosophers ever came up with, but at this point he was just stalling for time.
"Chuang Tzu was fishing by the Pu river, when two government officials arrived to appoint him Prime Minister. Watching the river, Chuang said, 'I am told that your prince has a sacred turtle, sacrificed three thousand years ago, which he keeps wrapped in silk. Do you think it is better to die, and leave a sacred shell which is worshipped for three thousand years, or is it better to live as a plain turtle, dragging its tail in the mud?' One of the officials replied, 'For the turtle, it is certainly better to live, and drag its tail in the mud.' And Chuang said, 'Go, then, and leave me here to drag my tail in the mud!' Now, Jim, what does that story mean to you?"
"Uh, that we need to overthrow the government so that we can all go fishing?" Jim tried not to sound too sarcastic, but he was rapidly forming the opinion that Baxter was every bit as crazy as Steven Cromwell.
Baxter laughed. "Bravo! Certainly, there is that lesson. But there is more as well."
"All the turtles should be allowed to drag their tails in the mud," Natasha offered.
Baxter nodded vigorously. "Exactly. We are all pipes of heaven. There is no room for elitism in any true spiritual belief, or in any true politics. If Cromwell has his way, or if the DEA have theirs, then Justine will be for the few. If I have mine, she will be for everyone."
"It's ironic, isn't it, Bill," Brian offered suddenly, "that Cromwell and the DEA are both after the same thing?" Jim glanced at the laconic grad student. It was the first time he had said anything, but it was a good point.
"Ironic, but hardly surprising!" Baxter replied. "Cromwell and the DEA are both elitists; they just represent different elites. The pigs don't want anyone but other pigs to have Justine; Cromwell doesn't want anyone but his little bondage friends to have her. I seem to be the only person who wants the world to have her."
"I don't know if you realize exactly what kind of mud you're giving everyone to drag their tails through, Bill," Jim said slowly.
"On the contrary, Jim, I know exactly what kind of mud I'm giving them. There has never been a better instrument of electronic enlightenment than Justine. Boot her up and in a matter of minutes she strips away that crippling layer of intellect we all carry around with us. She awakens our id and lets it roam free for the first time, but without hurting anyone. She offers us a return to sexual innocence. She represents freedom, Jim: freedom from dry, abstract intellectualism, freedom from the complexities of civilization, freedom from the tension and terror and angst that we have all come to assume is our lot in life. She is indeed the 'uncarved block,' but what you fail to realize is that she can teach us all to become that."
"Maybe we should check on the remailing sites, Bill," Brian suggested.
"In a minute," Baxter said testily. "I'm having a discussion with my friends here."
"That's fine, but don't you think we should check on the sites?" Brian asked nervously. "You could always continue your discussion after the post goes out."
"Haven't you heard anything I've told you over the last five years, Brian?" Baxter fumed. "A revolution that lacks a theoretical basis is meaningless. I'm trying to convince Jim and Natasha to join our anarchist cadre."
"But the DEA. . ." Brian whined.
"Fuck the DEA!" Baxter shouted. "My friends need to become convinced of the rightness of our cause," he continued, calming himself. Jim could almost hear the little voice in Baxter's head: be water, be water, be water. . . "Still, maybe it wouldn't hurt to see how our program of revolutionary action is coming along." Jim hadn't noticed that there was a terminal in the room. It stood on a card table outside the cone of light formed by the room's single bulb. With the monitor dark, it was practically invisible. But now Baxter seated himself in front of it, and the monitor bathed his face in an unearthly glow.
"Well, Jim, I'd sure rather have you with me than against me, but I'm afraid we're to the point in the story where you need to make up your mind in a hurry. The remailers are ready to go. So what's it going to be, my friends?"
"Bill, please," Jim said. His voice sounded panicky even to him. "You have to listen to reason. . ."
"Sorry, Jim, but I'm afraid you've missed the whole point. Reason is exactly the problem. The world is full of reason. The cops, the army, the bureaucracy, the corporations, all of that shit adds up to a big cult of reason, and I'm bringing that temple down. Reason had its chance, and it's been fucking the world up since Plato was around. It's time to try something new." Baxter smiled beautifically. "I suppose that will do for the dramatic speech that comes right before I push the button. Now, if you'll excuse me. . ."
"Drop that keyboard, Baxter," a new voice snarled.
"Cromwell!" Jim shouted.
"In the flesh, this time, Silicane," Cromwell replied, waving his .40 caliber automatic. If Cromwell's for real this time, that means the gun is, too, Jim thought. "Get away from that terminal, Baxter," Cromwell demanded.
"But. . ." Baxter stammered, his visions of world revolution evaporating before his eyes.
"I mean it, Baxter," Cromwell growled. He took aim and fired; Baxter's monitor imploded, filling the room briefly with phosphorescent light and showering Baxter's extensive belly with shards of glass. Baxter let out a cry of terror and tipped over his chair, but quickly scrambled to his feet. Miraculously, he seemed to be stunned but unhurt. He tried without much success to shake the glass fragments from his t-shirt.
"Bruno, why don't you check the other one?" Cromwell suggested.
"Bruno" lived up to his name. He stood a good head taller than Cromwell. His shoulders were about a mile across; he looked like a linebacker. He had on a black leather vest and no shirt. Jim noticed that both of his nipples had been pierced and threaded with gold rings. A recurring theme, Cromwell? Jim wondered. Bruno's leather pants were black and disturbingly tight. He wore sunglasses even in the dimly lit barracks. A little leather cap studded with gold rivets completed the ensemble.
Bruno lumbered over to Brian, who immediately--and wisely, thought Jim--held up his hands in surrender. "I'm unarmed," Brian protested.
"I'll be the judge of that," Bruno leered, running his hands roughly over Brian's body. "He's clean," Bruno announced. Jim shuddered. I wouldn't feel clean after that, he decided.
"Very good," Cromwell said with a grin. "Now we can relax a bit."
"How did you find us?" Jim demanded.
Cromwell sighed. "Is this the part where the villain reveals his sinister plan because he's going to kill everybody anyway? There are just a couple of problems with that, Silicane. First, although you are pretty irritating, I have no desire to kill you. I just want my property back. Second, who's the villain in this piece? Me or Baxter?"
"I think you're both nuts," Jim said frankly.
"You're honest, Silicane, and I can appreciate that. You want to know how I found you? What the hell; I've got the gun and I'm having fun here. You know I like to play with tiny little gadgets, so it shouldn't be too surprising to you that one of those little gizmos is a tracking device."
"What? But I've never even seen you before. I mean, not in person. So how. . ."
"Neat trick, isn't it? I arranged things at your office so that it would get planted on you as you conversed with my holographic alter ego. I'd rather not go into any more detail than that. Who knows; I might want to do it again! Now, that's enough small talk, I think. Let's have her, Baxter."
Baxter looked pale; he was clearly out of his depth. "What?"
"Justine, Baxter. Hand her over."
Baxter seemed to regain some of his composure at the mention of her name. "Now see here--Cromwell, is it?--perhaps we could discuss this. . ."
"There's nothing to discuss, motherfucker! You've stolen something that belongs to me, and I want it back. And as for this idiocy about posting Justine to the net. . ."
"I intended to strike a blow for freedom, Cromwell," Baxter said, regaining some of his dignity. "To challenge the tyranny we call the federal government. I would have thought that might have appealed to you."
Cromwell burst out laughing. "Christ, you social science assholes are a riot! You want to start a revolution? Fine. Do it on your own time. I'm not a revolutionary, Baxter. I'm a criminal. Haven't you figured that out yet? Basically I think the government is a pretty good idea. After all, they're the ones who built the net in the first place, and they keep it running. It's the government that makes people like me possible, Baxter. Where would I be if your moronic anarchy wet dreams came true? 'Gee, there goes Steve Cromwell. He used to be a hotshot data pirate back when there was a government, but now that nothing's illegal, there's no market for underground bondage porn. Now he sells life insurance.' You think I want to get a real job, Baxter? Get serious. I need the law, Baxter. I need it so that I have something to break.
"You intellectuals just make me want to puke sometimes." Cromwell's spiraling into another one of his ranting monologues, Jim realized. This would be a good time to start shopping around for the right moment to make a move. Unfortunately, Cromwell had planned ahead. He knew perfectly well that he was prone to run off at the mouth, which was undoubtedly why he had brought Bruno along. The big man was keeping a close watch on the proceedings. "You think you can just come up with some nifty anarchist theory and change the world?" Cromwell continued. "Maybe you should learn something about how the world really works first. Let's face it, Baxter, you have no fucking idea what's going on. Why don't you ask your buddy Silicane here? With a name like his, he ought to know a few things about computers."
Jim had heard the joke before. "It's 'Silicane,'" he said quietly. "With an 'a.'"
"Whatever," Cromwell replied indifferently.
"He's right, though, Bill," Jim said reluctantly. "You can't post Justine. One of her is unpredictable enough. Half a billion of her would wreck everything."
"Of course I'm right!" Cromwell exulted. "I'm the evil genius here, remember? Anyway, who cares if I'm right? I have the gun! Which reminds me, Baxter, you were going to hand over my program."
Reluctantly, Baxter reached into the wreckage of his terminal and pulled out a memory module. It looked like the same one Jim had received in the mail. That felt like it had happened a very long time ago now. Baxter tossed the module to Cromwell, who pocketed it. "Thanks, Bill. You're a pal. I don't suppose you have any other copies lying around?"
"That's the only one," Baxter replied with a sigh.
"What about your remailers?"
"I had them set up to post the file as soon as they received it, but I hadn't sent it yet. That's what I was about to do when you showed up."
Cromwell chuckled. "You know what, Baxter? I believe you. And you want to know why? Because you're a philosopher. You've got your head so far up in the clouds that you don't have any time for petty little concerns like backup copies. You want some advice, Baxter? If you want to bring on the revolution, you'd better start thinking less and doing more."
"I'll try to keep that in mind," Baxter said bitterly, tears in his eyes.
"Why don't you lay off him, Cromwell?" Jim said, suddenly feeling sorry for his friend. "You've got what you came for. You don't need to rub it in."
"You're something else, Silicane, you know that? This fat bastard just kidnapped your girlfriend and did his damnedest to trash all of Western civilization, and now you're defending him?"
"He did what he did because he thought it was right," Natasha said suddenly. "What's your excuse?"
"You want to know what my ethical system is, babe? I'll tell you. 'Steve Cromwell is always right.' It may not be philosophically rigorous, but it works. Well, kids, it's been fun, but I think we've overstayed our welcome. Come, Bruno." Cromwell started backing out of the room, but he didn't get too far.
"That's far enough, Cromwell," Norquist said firmly. Suddenly the room was full of men in dark glasses and suits.
"Oh, fuck me!" Cromwell exclaimed. "I don't believe this! Don't you fuckers ever quit? OK, who wants to be a hostage?" He leveled the gun at Natasha. "Might as well do this right. I'll take the chick."
"No, you won't," Natasha said firmly.
Jim boggled. "What? Sweetheart, the man's pointing a gun at you; you have to do what he says!"
"I don't have to do anything," Natasha replied evenly. "If he shoots me, he'll die of lead poisoning from all the bullets that he'll suddenly find in his body."
"She's got a point, Cromwell," Norquist said, drawing a bead on Cromwell's skull. "Shoot her and you leave this room in a bag. Drop the gun and you get to leave in handcuffs."
"Stop it, Phil, you're turning me on," Cromwell said with a frightening little giggle. "So how do you guys know I'm not willing to go out in a blaze of fucking glory? Everybody keeps telling me how crazy I am. Maybe they're right!"
Norquist held up his left hand, but kept his gun trained on Cromwell. "Now, take it easy, Cromwell. Nobody has to get hurt here. . ."
"Sure, nobody has to!" Cromwell roared. "But maybe I want somebody to get hurt! I know you have a nice, big file on me back at the ranch, Norquist! You know I'm a pretty high-strung individual, and I bet you know what my sex life is like, too! What do you think, Phil? You think I can get her through the nipple from here? I'm a pretty fucking good shot; maybe I should go for her pussy! What do you say, sweetheart? You up for a good bullet fuck?"
"You hurt that girl, scumbag," Jerry Agnostopolis said, his voice as cheerful as ever, "and nothin' in the world will keep me from killing the hell out of you."
Cromwell snorted derisively. "What are you gonna do, Agnostopolis, sit on me?" Then, to Norquist: "Well, Phil? What's it gonna be? I sure would like to see what that sexy white swimsuit looks like after it's been tie-died red!"
Norquist was sweating profusely. Jim could tell he wasn't cut out for this kind of high-stress situation; he should have stayed back at the office. But as long as he was the senior agent present, he was the one who had to play out this contest of wills. Unfortunately, it wasn't his kind of game; he blinked first. "OK, Cromwell," Norquist said at last. "That's enough. Drop your guns, everybody."
One of the feds looked quizzically at Norquist. "But, sir. . ."
"Do it!," Norquist ordered, dropping his own weapon onto the floor. One by one, the agents lowered their guns.
Cromwell smiled. "That's better. I knew you boys would play nice if I just explained things to you. OK, honey, move that cute little ass of yours. We've got places to go."
"I'm still not going with you," Natasha said flatly.
Cromwell was rapidly losing it. "Maybe you haven't noticed, babe, but I'm pointing a fucking gun at you! Now get your ass up off that chair and let's go!" He cocked the pistol's hammer back dramatically.
"Why should I go with you?" Natasha demanded, her voice icy. "So you can turn me into a real-life rape fantasy?"
Cromwell looked thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea, now that you mention it. But right now, you're my ticket out of here. We can negotiate the rest once we're gone."
"Fuck you," Natasha replied. "You're just going to have to shoot me."
Jim couldn't take it any longer. "Natasha, for God's sake! What the fuck are you doing?"
"He's not going to shoot me, Jim," Natasha informed him. "That 'blaze of glory' stuff sounds pretty good, Steve. But you know these feds will shoot the hell out of you the second you drop that hammer, and you don't have the balls for it. Do you, Steve?"
A strange expression crossed Cromwell's face. Slowly he uncocked the pistol and raised the muzzle until it was pointing at the ceiling. "I guess I don't." Suddenly there were half a dozen guns pointed at Cromwell's head. Norquist tore the .40 out of Cromwell's hands and shoved it triumphantly into the pocket of his suit coat. Cromwell laughed hollowly. "Christ, Silicane, where the hell did you find this bitch?"
"Steven Cromwell," Norquist said, savoring his moment of victory, "you are under arrest for violation of federal data law, assault, possession of an unregistered handgun, resisting arrest, and probably a dozen other crimes I haven't even thought of yet. Cuff him, Jerry. Oh, and let's have that memory module; that's important evidence." Agnostopolis reached into Cromwell's pocket and drew out the module, which he then handed to Norquist.
"Ooh! Easy, there, Agnostopolis; I don't even know you that well. You should at least buy me dinner first."
"Laugh it up, freak," Jerry grinned. "You won't have much else to laugh about for the next ten to twenty."
"You know what he's gonna do with that 'important evidence,' don't you?" Cromwell groused. "He's gonna take it home and plug it in and start cranking out homoerotic video of Adolph Hitler and Josef Stalin. I know your kind, Norquist."
"Shut up, Cromwell, I'm not done arresting people yet. Bruno Himmelfarb, you're under arrest as an accessory to data crimes. William Baxter and Brian Boskie, you are under arrest for violation of federal data law, conspiracy, battery, kidnapping and insurrection."
"Thank you for adding that last one, sir." Baxter said with what Jim regarded as impressive dignity under the circumstances. "That charge makes it clear that I am a political prisoner. I should hate to be mistaken for a common criminal."
"That's right, Bill!" Cromwell sneered. "You wouldn't want people to mistake you for me, even though we'll probably be in the same cell!"
"There's a depressing thought," Baxter lamented.
Jim and Natasha were not taking their time about falling into each other's arms. She was nuzzling up against his shoulder and it felt good. Jim realized that he was shivering. He wanted to hold Natasha and forget about the world, but it occurred to him that he might not see Baxter again for a while. He forced himself to look up from the embrace. "Bill, I. . .well, I'm sorry it had to end up like this," he said lamely.
"That's quite all right, Jim," Baxter assured him. "Like any revolutionary, I must take full responsibility for my actions. In a way, this is probably best. I'm afraid Cromwell is right; I overextended myself in this little adventure. My true calling is to be a revolutionary theorist, not an activist. By undertaking this insurrection, I have violated my inner nature. It was quite foolish of me, really. I forgot a very important Taoist principle."
"What's that?" Jim asked solicitously.
"Tiggers cannot really fly."
"OK, that's enough, folks," Norquist decided, obviously enjoying the feeling of command now that the danger had passed. "Everybody I just arrested has the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You all have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Take them away, boys."
"Do stop by the Bastille if you can, Jim," Baxter said. "And perhaps you'd be good enough to bring a few of my books. This could be a good chance for me to get some work done."
"I'll do that, Bill," Jim said, smiling. Baxter was taking it all pretty well.
"Dr. Baxter?" Brian said as the feds led them out of the room.
"What is it, Brian?"
"I want a new thesis advisor."
"Fuck off, Brian."
Norquist holstered his pistol and pointed an admonishing finger at Natasha. "Miss Bukharin, that was a very foolish thing you just did."
Natasha shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?" She sounded unconcerned, but Jim could feel the tension in her body. She was just now getting around to being terrified.
"Well, yes, but that's not the point," Norquist insisted. "You had no way of knowing what Cromwell might do. The man is a lunatic, ma'am. He might easily have shot you."
"He probably is a lunatic," Natasha agreed, "but he's also a gutless wonder."
"Well, I'm glad for your sake that you turned out to be right about that," Norquist said, obviously exasperated. "But do me a favor, Miss Bukharin. Never try a stunt like that again." Norquist turned to Jim and extended his hand. "Doctor Silicane, I want to thank you for all of your help in this investigation. Jerry found the message from Baxter on your room terminal, and that led us right here. Given the threat to Miss Bukharin's safety, I can certainly understand why you were reluctant to contact us, but I must advise you to overcome that reluctance if you ever find yourself in a similar situation. Despite what Dr. Baxter may have told you, you can trust us. After all, we're the police."
"That's certainly reassuring," Jim said, trying to sound like he meant it. Norquist stepped out of the room to deal with his prisoners, leaving Jim and Natasha alone. Jim held her head against his shoulder. "Sweetheart," he whispered, "if you ever do something like that again, I'll kill you."
"Would you rather I had gone with him?" she asked.
"I. . ."
"Look, Jim, I know you're trying to protect me, and that's sweet. But honestly, if I had to chose between being shot now or raped and shot later, I'd take being shot now. You act like my life means more to you than it does to me. Maybe it does, but it means plenty to me, too. There's just no way I was leaving here with that sick son of a bitch. You have to trust me to make that kind of decision for myself. I mean, I was the one who would have ended up in the trunk of his car."
As usual, she was right. Jim was being a big, overprotective male, trying to tell her what she should have done when in fact, her quick thinking and acute psychological assessment of Cromwell had defused the whole situation. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said sincerely. "I'm just glad you're OK."
"Me too," she said softly.
"Christ, if I'm never that scared again it'll be too soon," Jim confessed. "Look at me; I can't stop shaking."
Natasha put her arms around him. "Shh. It's OK now." So much for the protective male, Jim thought with just a hint of self-contempt.
Jerry Agnostopolis had stepped back into the room. "Hey, Doc, could I have a word with you?" he asked.
"Sure, Jerry," Jim replied, glad to be distracted from the fear that lingered about him like a fog. "What is it?"
"Over here, Doc." Jerry beckoned him over to the ruins of Baxter's terminal. Reluctantly, Jim released Natasha and joined the hefty agent. It felt strange standing there at the very site where the revolution hadn't happened. It seemed like a sad place. So many hopes and dreams up in smoke, blasted to hell by Cromwell's bullet. As misguided as those dreams had been, Jim knew that Baxter's heart had been in the right place.
"Say, Doc. You and Natasha can stay tonight in the hotel room if you want to. One last night on us, you know? To celebrate."
"That's nice of you, Jerry, but I think we're ready to go home."
"That's fine. There's one other thing, though." Jerry lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The thing is, Doc, when I tossed your room looking for clues, that nasty picture from Baxter wasn't the only thing I found on that terminal." Uh oh. "Now, I don't want to cause any trouble for you or for Natasha. You're good people; you just got in a little bit over your head on this one. So what I did is, I just erased that Justine program. I haven't told Phil about it, and I'm not gonna. But what I need to know is, do you have any other copies of that thing lying around?"
Jim's heart was pounding in his chest. There was the backup at the office, of course. He didn't know how recent it was, but it was there. If he admitted its existence, though, he knew exactly what would happen. Jerry would drive him to the office and stand there while Jim erased Justine, once and for all. Friendly, likable Jerry would cheerfully and remorselessly ask Jim to commit murder for him. And if Jim didn't do it, he'd go to jail. So Jim had to lie.
Suddenly it all made sense to him. In a flash of insight, Jim understood why Baxter was the way he was. It had never really made sense to him before. Sure, the government was a pain in the ass, but that was no reason to have a damn revolution. Jim had never been able to figure out the revolutionary mentality. Until now. Because now as he stood here talking to this cop, Jim realized that the only two choices the law was giving him were to be a liar or a murderer, and he didn't want to be either. No matter what he did, the law had made him into an unethical person. Cromwell was right after all. It was the law that made criminals.
Of course, he didn't really have any choice at all. "No," he said quietly. "That was the only one."
"Well, that's a relief, Doc. Give us a call if you come across any other copies of that pesky thing, OK?"
"I'll do that, Jerry," Jim lied. That was twice.
"That's fine, Doc. Say, can I give you two a lift anywhere?"
"Well, I guess we should go check out of the hotel. Then I think we'd like to go home."