Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

Mirim wasn't so sure about her roommate's trustworthiness-despite her earlier protests, she knew Cecelia was feeling jealous that Mirim and Casper were spending so much time together, and in that condition a brief malign impulse might get out of hand. Mirim had seen Cecelia get out of hand. She didn't think Casper had; a non-resident boyfriend didn't get the same treatment a roommate did.

She didn't say anything, though; she just climbed out of the car.

Casper got out on the other side, and the two of them stood, looking about at the gathering twilight. They could hear the hum of distant traffic, and the chirping of crickets.

“Peaceful here,” Casper remarked.

“Yes,” Mirim agreed.

The street curved, and there were mature trees everywhere, so they couldn't see very far; perhaps half a dozen large homes were in sight, each with a few lights on.

“Nice neighborhood,” Casper said.

Mirim made a noise of agreement.

“Shall we walk a little, see how the plutocrats live?” Casper asked.

Mirim nodded.

Together, they strolled down the sidewalk, admiring the houses. The predominant style was English Tudor; the trees were mostly oak.

“How'd you ever get a name like Mirim, anyway?” Casper asked, as he looked up at the trees.

Mirim glanced at him, startled by the question. It was one she was asked frequently, of course, but Casper had never brought the subject up before.

And there was something odd about the way he was looking at the trees, as if he were checking for snipers.

He probably was.

“It was supposed to be Miriam,” she explained, “but it was typoed on the birth registration, and by the time anyone caught it it had gone into the Social Security files as Mirim. It was easier to change what I was called than to convince the government to change anything.”

Casper grimaced.

“Typical,” he said angrily. “We're supposed to have government of the people, by the people, and for the people here, and you have to change your name to suit the damn government. The government should change to suit you, not the other way around!” He turned around.

They were almost out of sight of the Mustang, and they were out of sight of the lawyer's house.

“Come on,” he said, “we better get back.”

As they drew near the house they saw the front door open, and Cecelia stepped out. Casper picked up the pace, and Mirim hurried after him.

Cecelia spotted them.

“Oh, there you are!” she said. “Come on, I've got a rendezvous set up.”

She headed for the car, and stopped at the door. She looked from Mirim to Casper and back.

“This time, you ride in the back,” she told Mirim.

Schiano looked over his designer's notes one last time-Smith had arranged for him to retrieve them from government storage, to aid in the pursuit of Beech, and Schiano had happuly accepted without mentioning the highly illegal back-up he had always kept on his PDA at home. He then flipped to the report Smith had given him on Beech's actions so far.

“That poor son of a bitch,” he said.

“Why?” Smith demanded. He didn't bother asking who Schiano was talking about.

“Because he's gotta be incredibly confused,” Schiano replied.

“Why?”

Schiano sighed. “Look,” he said, “the Spartacus File was designed to be used against anti-American governments, right?”

“So?”

“So it's got values and ideals built into it, something for our Spartacus to be preaching, something for him to replace the anti-American government with if he succeeds. And since we didn't know exactly which governments we might want to turn a Spartacus loose on, only that they'd be anti-American, the basis for all those values and ideals is right here around us-the good ol’ U.S. of A.” He waved an arm, taking in the entire room. “Our Mr. Beech is now programmed to rebel against any and all authority, and to attempt to overthrow the government-but at the same time, he's programmed to admire the U.S. and to consider the Constitution the most perfect document ever created. So if he did overthrow the government, what would he replace it with? Exactly the same thing!” He shook his head. “That'd be enough to drive a guy nuts, I'd think.”

Smith stared at him silently for a moment, then said, “Beech doesn't seem to be having any problem with the idea so far.”

“How do you know?” Schiano asked. “I'll bet he is.”

“So maybe he is,” Smith said. “Just tell us how to find him.”

Schiano sighed. “Okay,” he said, “it's simple enough. It's in the options path right here.” He turned the screen back to his notes, scrolled quickly, and pointed. “He knows you're after him, right? And that you were on to him before he was able to assemble an organization?”

Smith nodded.

“And you've tried to assassinate him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then he'll go underground, disappear as completely as he can-there's no point in watching his family or friends; he won't have any contact at all with his old life until he's got a secure position to recruit from.”

“We know he's disappeared,” Smith said. “Where has he disappeared to?”

“Well, he's got multiple options there,” Schiano answered, looking at the flowchart, “but first choice is to contact any existing rebel groups.”

“Rebel groups?” Smith asked. “Jesus, Schiano, this is Pennsylvania, not some damn banana republic-we don't have rebels here.”

Schiano hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Second choice is to take shelter in the underclass and start assembling his own organization, working through organized crime and charitable organizations.”

“ Where? ”

“In the biggest city he can get to, of course,” Schiano said. “The best place to hide is in a crowd, and it's in the big cities that you find the underclass, and organized crime, and organized charity. In most countries that would be the capital, so Washington would have been a possibility, but you said he was headed north, so he must be going to New York.”

“Unless he doubled back, to throw us off,” Smith said.

“Unless he doubled back,” Schiano agreed. “Which he might have; I deliberately left that random, to make him less predictable. Remember, when I wrote this I was assuming he'd be on our side-I wanted him to succeed.”

“So he's in either New York or Washington,” Smith said.

“Probably,” Schiano said. “Remember, though, he's not a computer, and this is an optimization program, not a set of fixed instructions-he's still got free will.”

“Fuck free will,” Smith said. He turned and stamped away.

As he walked, he marveled to himself at the blind naivete of that stupid programmer. Didn't he realize the difference between ideals and reality? The Constitution had been increasingly irrelevant for at least a century, and downright dead ever since the Crisis; if Beech really believed in the American dream, he'd find plenty to rebel against.

Behind him, at his workstation, Bob Schiano stared after the departing spymaster.

Smith was an idiot. Didn't he realize that “rebel groups” didn't necessarily mean a bunch of yahoos with guns running around in the mountains or jungles? The U.S. was full of rebel groups; they were all over the web. Terrorism wasn't as bad as a few years back, but there were still terrorists, and weren't those rebels? The fundies and militia groups had been reduced in the campaigns of the early ‘20s, but did Smith really think they were extinct? And there were groups that hadn't resorted to violence but were just as rebellious in other ways. Some of them were labelled “subversive organizations,” others were “lunatic fringe,” a few were “cults” or even recognized churches, while others didn't fit any handy label, but to the Spartacus File they'd all qualify as rebel groups.