He glanced at it, and his veneer of absolute calm cracked. “Damn!” he muttered.
“What's wrong?” the Chairman asked.
Smith folded the document and tucked it into an inside pocket. “We've got a problem here,” he said. “A real problem. This man was imprinted with the Spartacus File.”
“I'm afraid I'm not familiar with all the material involved; is that bad?”
“Very bad. It's probably the most dangerous of all the files in the series.”
Smith looked at the Chairman as if expecting instant comprehension; irritated, the Chairman glared back and said, “Suppose you explain that a little.”
Smith glanced at the others. “I don't want to go into explicit detail here,” he said.
“Then don't. But give us some idea.”
“You're familiar with the historical Spartacus?” Smith asked.
“You mean the old movie?” the Chairman asked, puzzled. “I think I saw it on video once.”
“No, sir,” Smith said, “I mean the slave who rebelled against ancient Rome and repeatedly defeated vastly superior armies sent against him. He was a superb gladiator, rabble-rouser, and general.” He looked about, but saw only blank faces. He continued, “Well, the Spartacus File is modeled on what we assume his abilities were, and as I said, it's probably the most dangerous optimization file we've ever devised. It was created exclusively for use in nations not friendly to the United States. In a person with the capability of accepting it—and such people are extremely rare; we've never yet found a healthy one ourselves—it creates an individual of immense charisma and superb military ability, across the whole range from strategic planning down to personal combat, and with a compulsion to resist authority at all levels and to organize against that authority. The theory was that by programming a single individual in an unfriendly state with the Spartacus File, we could cheaply and easily cause a popular revolt that, even if it failed, would occupy that state to the exclusion of all other activities. Most of the other files are non-compulsive, or compulsive only under certain circumstances—that is, they give the recipient high ability, but they don't require that those abilities be used. Someone optimized as an assassin, for example, won't kill people at random—he'll wait until he's assigned a target. The Godzilla File is compulsive, but it's also unsubtle, very much out in the open—it's intended more as a nuisance than anything else, and without support the optimized individual is easy to dispose of, just as the city police disposed of Polnovick. The Spartacus File, however, is both subtle and compulsive—the recipient is programmed to hide, to work from concealment, and is irresistibly compelled to overthrow whatever government he finds himself subject to. And now an American has been programmed with the file, right here in Philadelphia.” He looked at the Chairman expectantly.
The Chairman looked doubtful. “Philadelphia isn't some African backwater or ex-Soviet hellhole, you know,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” Smith answered, annoyed, “but there are always malcontents and trouble-makers who can be stirred up—street people, romantic youngsters, intellectuals, people who wouldn't be satisfied with any government. A man imprinted with the Spartacus File would be able to stir up their discontent very efficiently; even if he fell short of fomenting actual revolution he would almost inevitably trigger rioting, renewed terrorism, and a great deal of other unpleasantness. As I said, it's a time bomb.”
“Well, then,” the Chairman said reasonably, “we shall have to defuse this bomb.”
“It's not going to be easy,” Smith continued. “We must be careful. This man is now programmed to identify government agents, and to react negatively and often violently to them; he's conditioned to resist all authority and stir up as much trouble as possible. Remember, everything we knew we put into this; we didn't want our Spartacus to be stopped. This was our top-of-the-line file.”
“He's still only one man, and I understand that the optimization was done without the proper preparation, so it may not even be complete; surely he can be stopped.”
“Oh, I think he can be stopped, but it won't be all that easy. Remember how difficult it's been to bring down certain terrorists.” Smith considered. “Whatever we do to him, we can't make any obvious moves to apprehend him—he'd spot it, not to mention that if he's already started gathering followers we don't need to make any martyrs. And we've got to be sure that whatever we do works the first time. A failed attempt will alert him, and may well trigger more of the Spartacus File—exactly what we want to prevent. And we have to keep it all quiet—if the File's working the way I was told it would, the man has the capability of winning over mobs, or recruiting individual converts to his cause. As long as he's alive he'll be able to turn anything we do to him, however benevolent, into anti-government propaganda—if we give him the chance by drawing attention to him.”
“I'm sure something can be arranged.” The Chairman shrugged.
“Sir,” NeuroTalents’ new executive director asked, “are you saying this man Beech is to be killed?”
“No, I'm sure that won't be necessary,” the Chairman replied. “We can have him taken into custody and neutralized by less drastic means, I'm certain.”
“I'm not,” Smith replied. “Optimization can't be reversed, you know—nothing short of a lobotomy will get the Spartacus File out of his brain now. I think we probably will need to kill him, just as Ms. Kendall says. And the sooner the better, before he can turn it into a martyrdom.”
The Chairman tapped a pencil on the table, then looked up at Smith. “NeuroTalents doesn't kill people,” he said.
“Covert does. With the proper authorization.”
“What sort of authorization are you talking about?”
“Executive order. We can get one tonight, if we have to.”
The Chairman glowered. “Let me see that report,” he said, holding out a hand.
Smith hesitated, and then replied, “No, I think we at Covert will handle this ourselves from now on.” He patted the pocket that held the report. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Chairman, but NeuroTalents is no longer concerned.”
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Chapter Six
The radio clicked on on schedule the next morning; Casper lay, still half-asleep, as the regular list of catastrophes was recited. The Russian civil war was still raging, more complicated than ever, and the Fringers were still causing trouble out-system, claiming they could use non-Consortium contractors and install non-Party officials.
Then he snapped awake.
“Four youths were killed late last night in the tunnels near the City Hall subway station,” the announcer said. “The youths, whose names have not been released by the police, were walking along the tracks between City Hall and Race/Vine Station when they were struck and killed by a train as it returned to the yard for the night. A corporate spokesperson for the Philadelphia police said...”
Casper rolled away from the radio and blocked out the sound with a pillow over his ears. The last thing he needed was a reminder of the previous night's events. He remembered them all too clearly.
Except, that is, exactly how he had knocked those two hoods down. His body had acted on its own, and he had somehow caught two alert young men off-guard.
He didn't understand that at all. He had never done anything like that before. And it had happened before he watched the self-defense video. Watching the file hadn't been like learning something new, it had been like re-learning a beloved childhood ritual.
That made no sense at all. He hadn't known anything about self-defense as a child. His parents hadn't even let him watch the Power Rangers or other popular shows.
When the radio's drone of speech was replaced by music Casper uncovered his head. Hoping this start was not an omen of how the rest of the day would go, he rolled out of bed and prepared for work—not that he thought he would be able to accomplish anything on three hours sleep and with the imprint not working.
The subway st
ation showed no evidence of what had occurred the night before. Casper glanced around, looking for signs, and saw none. Later, when the train passed through the City Hall station, he didn't even think to look out the window.
He left the subway and climbed the stairs to the street.
At the top he stopped, blinked in the sunlight, and without knowing why he quickly scanned the neighborhood, noting rooftops, obstructions, and who was where. The morning commuters were marching to their duties; a leftover drunk from the night before lay against a building.
He took a step back down, unsure just why. Something had sparkled somewhere, but he had no idea why that should mean anything.
Still, it bothered him. He turned and trotted back down the steps, and went out the opposite entrance. Then he detoured around the block.
Just for variety, he tried to tell himself. He was taking a new, longer route just to be different.
In the elevator he found himself thinking that he would have to buy a gun, or at any rate acquire one somehow. It would be expected, and he might need it.
He blinked. Expected by whom? Needed for what?
At his desk he looked at the job list and first despaired, then grew defiant.
What kind of a man did they think he was, giving him all this shitwork to do?
Mirim stepped up behind him and said, “Boo!”
He didn't react immediately; then his lips pulled back and his teeth showed in an expression that was only technically a smile. He turned.
“Do you respect yourself?” he demanded.
“What?”
“I said, do you respect yourself?”
Mirim blinked, puzzled. “Of course I do,” she said. “Is this a gag, Casper?”
“A joke?” He waved an arm at his computer screen. “No, Mirim,” he said, “that's a joke! Expecting a human being to waste his time on this nonsense! It's fit only for lawyers and computers, not a so-called free man!”
She laughed. “You got that right!” she said. “But hey, it's a steady paycheck, right?”
“Not any more!” Casper cleared the screen. “Not for me, it isn't!”
Her smile vanished. “Cas, do you feel all right?”
“I feel fine, Mirim. I feel better than I have in years. I'm setting myself free, and it feels good!”
“Cas...”
“You think I'm being a reckless fool, don't you?”
“If you're serious, yeah, I do, Cas. Are you...”
Casper laughed, not his usual high-pitched, nervous giggle, but a solid, powerful laugh. “Mirim,” he said, “we were meant for better things than this. We've had our birthright stolen, and I mean to...”
“What's this, Beech?” a new voice demanded. Quinones appeared at Mirim's shoulder.
Casper looked at his boss's broad, hostile face, and the feeling of power and certainty suddenly faded. There were times to retreat and regroup, and this was one of them.
“Nothing, sir,” he said.
“Then let's get back to work, shall we? You and Ms. Anspack both. I must say, that imprinting you took doesn't seem to have kicked in yet, from what you've done so far.”
“I'd have to agree, sir,” Casper said boldly. “I think NeuroTalents screwed it up somehow, and you should have someone look into the matter.”
Startled, Quinones stared at Beech. The man was a doormat, and could always be relied on to accept blame for anything—since when would he suggest that somebody else might be at fault?
Since when would he suggest anything?
“I think you're right,” Quinones said slowly. “I think I might just give NeuroTalents a call myself.”
“You do that, sir,” Casper said. “Thank you.”
“Right. Well, Beech, you'd better get some work done, imprinted or not.”
Quinones turned and marched away. Mirim watched him go, throwing quick little glances at Casper and trying to suppress the urge to giggle. The whole exchange had been bizarre. Casper talking to Quinones that way? Sweet little Casper?
“Casper, what's happened to you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “I really do think the imprint must have been screwed up somehow. I can't do a damn thing with this new software, but I'm getting all these other weird reactions. And you know, Mirim, they might be just what I've needed to jar me out of my rut.”
Mirim nodded, eyeing Casper. For the past year, maybe longer, she had been watching Casper, joking with him, watching how Quinones and the other people around the office treated him, watching how he treated Cecelia and how Celia bossed him around, and thinking what a fine man he could be if he had a little more backbone, if he weren't afraid to step out of his timid little groove—but that had been daydreaming. If it was really going to happen, she wasn't sure how to handle it. “I think I better get back to work myself,” she said, and she turned away.
From the door of his office Quinones watched her emerge from behind Casper's partition and go back toward her own desk; he was just stepping inside when his phone rang.
Annoyed, he glanced back out the door; yes, his secretary was working the phone. Why hadn't she just called to him? He picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?”
“Arturo Quinones?” a cold voice asked.
“This is Quinones.”
“Are you private?”
Puzzled, Quinones leaned over and closed the door. “Yes,” he said.
“You have a man named Casper Beech there? Recently received an imprint at NeuroTalents?”
“He works here, yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Smith,” the voice replied. “I'm with the government. Is Beech there now?”
“Yes, I just spoke to him. What's this about?”
“Don't worry about it. What we want you to do is tell us the minute Beech leaves the office, for any reason. Just call this number, 445-304-0011—did you get that?”
“No,” Quinones said, groping for a pen—most people would have used a PDA or keyboard, but Quinones was proud of his old-fashioned insistence on hardcopy. “Hold on a minute.” He found a pen, fished an old envelope from the trash, and said, “Ready.”
The number was repeated.
“Call that number,” Smith told him. “You don't need to wait for an answer, but let it ring at least twice, to make sure Caller ID gets your number. Don't call until Beech leaves. You understand?”
“I understand, but what...”
Smith hung up.
Quinones stared at the phone for a minute, then muttered, “Shit. Crazy feds,” and dropped the receiver on the cradle.
He supposed, though, that he had better do what he was told.
He opened the door and tried to peer through or over the maze of partitions, but there was simply no way to see Beech from where he stood. He returned to his desk, sat, and grabbed the phone.
Mirim's cubby was in a corner where she could see the office entry, and if she turned the other way she could see Casper. She was sitting there, marveling at the sight of Casper Beech leaning back with his hands behind his head, not even pretending to work, when her phone beeped for attention.
She snatched up the headset and plugged it into her ear. “Anspack,” she said into the mike.
“Mirim, this is Mr. Quinones,” she heard. “I've got something I'd like you to do for me.”
“Yes, sir?” she replied, puzzled.
“I want you to tell me when Casper Beech leaves the office—even if it's just to use the men's room. Just give me a buzz.”
Mirim hesitated. “Uh ... yes, sir,” she said at last. She fought down the impulse to ask why; she knew that Quinones didn't take kindly to questions from his subordinates.
“Good. You just call the minute he sets foot out the door, then.”
He hung up.
He hadn't even said thank you, Mirim thought, pulling off the headset and glaring at it. He hadn't given any reason.
He was probably mad at Casper about some stupid little infraction that poor Cas didn't even kn
ow he'd committed. Maybe he'd heard Cas's stillborn speech about self-respect.
But why would he want to know when Cas was out of the office?
So he could search his cubby, of course. He probably thought Cas was on uppers or something—a man like Quinones would never believe one of his underlings might simply be fed up, he'd insist there was some other factor, something affecting the man's thinking.
Mirim's mouth set in an angry frown.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a guilty little thought appeared—was Casper on something? Drugs or wire?
Even if he was, though, what business was it of Quinones'? Or of hers? She hadn't been hired to spy on her co-workers. Quinones had a lot of nerve, involving her in his nasty little search-and-seizure—if that's what it was.
He hadn't bothered to explain; he had treated her as if she were a slave, or a robot, with no choice but to carry out his every order.
She was no robot.
Casper's question came back to her. Did she respect herself?
Yes, she did. She stood up and marched back to Casper's cubby.
Casper looked up at her approach, and quickly blanked his screen. He had given up on doing the job he was supposed to be doing, tracing through the mazes of interlocking directorates, shared subsidiaries, and stock options to determine just who owned what, so that companies would not unwittingly sue their own managers or stockholders in the ongoing torrent of liability litigation; instead, he had been doing some very simple, basic searches, seeing just what in the company network he could access easily and what was relatively secure.
Mirim probably wouldn't have noticed, but why risk it?
“Come to torment me further, wench?” he asked, smiling.
“Sort of,” Mirim said, not smiling back. “I wanted to warn you.”
His own expression collapsed into mild wariness. “Warn me of what?” he asked.
Mirim hesitated. It wasn't too late to throw it off with a joke, to keep from offending Quinones, to avoid risking her job.
The Spartacus File Page 5
