Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

“And you know what, folks? I'm glad. Because at least I'm out of here, and the rest of you aren't. But I won't be the last to go-no, I'm just the first! Because do you know what our dear Mr. Quinones told me, when he sent me to have my brain reprogrammed, my mind tampered with? I'll tell you what he told me. It seems software that runs in people is cheaper than software that runs in computers, because we can do our own debugging. It seems that dear old Data Tracers intends to do a lot of imprinting from now on-I was just the first! And do you know what the failure rate for neural imprinting is? Do you?”

He waited, but nobody replied.

“Neither do I,” he announced. “Because I'm damn sure it's not what they've published. Most of you work with data all the time, bend it around to suit management, to suit the customers’ whims. You think any of the data we get hasn't been tampered with? Ha!”

He waved in dismissal, and his tone changed from anger to false joviality.

“Well, boys and girls, I'm out of here, and glad to be free. I'll leave you all to enjoy your imprints-or if they don't take, I'll see you on the streets, with the other unemployables. Stop by and say hello, and remember-my name's Casper Beech.”

Then he jumped down, grabbed Mirim by the hand, and said, “Come on.”

“Come where?” she said, startled.

He stopped in mid-stride, turned, and smiled at her. “Wherever you like,” he said, “but back to your desk for a start. You don't want anyone to tell Quinones it was you who warned me, do you?”

The room was buzzing; several people had emerged from their cubbies and were approaching Casper uncertainly.

Mirim hesitated.

Casper abruptly leaned forward and kissed her, taking her head between his hands-and as he did, he whispered, “I need to leave now, or it'll ruin my exit.” Then he released her and strode toward the door.

Mirim blinked, then ran after him. She detoured just far enough to grab her purse.

Together, they marched out the door. A crowd gathered in the doorway, watching them go.

When Mirim and Casper had vanished into an elevator, the crowd gradually dispersed. It wasn't until almost five minutes later that somebody thought to tell Quinones that two of his subordinates had just walked off the job.

The man dozing on the rooftop heard the buzz; he rolled over and looked at the read-out on his phone.

It was Quinones’ number. He didn't know that; he only knew that the number matched the code he had been given. The target was on his way out of the building-or at least, he might be.

The man really hadn't expected anything for hours yet, but that was fine; he was eager to get it over with. He picked up the Remington 700 in one hand, the binoculars in the other.

The damn phone kept buzzing. That wasn't in the plan. He was supposed to get the code number on the read-out, the target was supposed to come out the front door, and then the sniper was supposed to put a bullet through the target's head. Then the cops and paramedics would go to work, and make sure the target was securely dead and that everyone was convinced it was the doing of some unknown crazy or terrorist.

He didn't see the target. He put down the binoculars and took another glance at the holo.

The phone was still buzzing. Annoyed, he reached over and flicked it open, but didn't say anything.

After a few seconds of silence, a worried voice said, “Mr. Smith?”

The sniper grimaced. His name wasn't Smith; nobody involved with the operation was named Smith, so far as he knew, but then, he wasn't supposed to know any names. “What is it?” he whispered. He whispered to keep his voice from being recognized, not because he expected anyone else to hear him.

“I'm sorry, but Beech left early, and I missed it; he's been gone almost ten minutes.”

“Damn!” The sniper slammed the phone closed, grabbed the binoculars, and began scanning the neighborhood.

No one fitting his target's description was anywhere within a hundred meters of the door where he had been told the target would appear. The target was supposed to head for the Race/Vine subway station; the sniper scanned quickly in that direction.

And there, descending the steps, he spotted a man and a woman, walking together and talking.

Nobody had mentioned anything about a woman, and it would be a long, difficult shot; he hesitated, and then it was too late.

“Damn!” he said again, as he reached for the phone.

The contact man, whom the sniper did not know by the name Smith, took the news calmly.

“You didn't fire?” he asked, after he'd heard the sniper's report.

“No.”

“Good. Then he still doesn't know that anyone's taking an interest in him. Pack it in, cover your tracks, and report in-full pay, and half the usual bonus if your story checks.”

Smith hung up the phone, thought for a moment, and then called Quinones to ask what had happened, and who the woman with Beech was.

“Where are we going?” Mirim asked, as they stood on the empty subway platform.

“Um… well, I thought I'd go back to my apartment, I guess,” Casper replied uncertainly. He was scanning the station, not looking at her.

“You guess?”

“Well, I don't know-is there somewhere you'd rather I went?”

Mirim stared at him. A few minutes ago Casper had been a commanding, self-confident orator; now he was a wimp who couldn't even look her in the eye. “You don't know?”

“No. Hey, I just lost my job, I'm a little thrown, you know? Where else should I go?” He shook his head. “And my mind's been playing tricks on me.”

“What kind of tricks?” Mirim asked, puzzled.

“Like that speech I gave. I mean, what was I doing standing on my desk? That was crazy!”

Mirim stared at him.

“I thought you were great,” she said.

“But it's crazy,” he said. “It's not me. It cost me my job.”

“I thought you were going to lose your job anyway,” Mirim said. “You said you were.”

“Well, yeah, I was,” Casper admitted, a bit puzzled. “Maybe, anyway. No one had actually said I was fired yet, but I wasn't doing my work.”

“So you were going to be fired.”

“I think so.”

“So what harm does it do to tell them what you think?” Mirim challenged him.

“None, I guess,” Casper admitted. “Unless they blacklist me and keep me from getting another job.”

“You think you have a chance of ever getting another job in the same field?” Mirim asked.

Casper thought for a moment, then said, “No. Not really.”

“So what harm did it do?”

Casper had no answer for that. He was busy studying the pillars and tracks.

“What are you looking at?” Mirim asked, puzzled.

“Oh,” Casper said, “Well, see there, I was checking whether you could set up a crossfire over the end of the tunnel, but I don't think the niche in the far wall is deep enough…”

“A crossfire?” Mirim stared at him. “Casper, what are you talking about?”

He turned and stared back at her with a haunted expression. “I don't know, Mirim,” he said. “I don't have any idea, and it scares the heck out of me.”

Mirim hesitated, about to say something, but just then they heard the screeching of steel wheels as the train neared the station, and she decided it could wait. For awhile there she had thought that Casper was at last coming out of his shell, but now he seemed to be retreating again, and she didn't want to force anything, not yet. Something strange was happening to him, presumably brought on by that stupid imprint.

She wondered if he would be willing to see a doctor.

She wondered if he could afford to see a doctor.

There was no point in berating Quinones; the important part was where Beech was now. Smith didn't need to think very hard about that; the obvious place for Beech to go was home.