Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

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 station 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.