Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

“Are you going to let him hold the rally?” Schiano asked.

“You tell me,” Smith said. “You're supposed to be the expert on this guy-what's happening here? Is this some kind of diversion? Or is he really going to show up at this thing and give us a clear shot at him?”

“I don't know,” Schiano repeated.

“Suppose we clear the streets, cordon off that block, don't let anyone in-then what?”

“Oh, he won't show then,” Schiano said confidently. “He's not stupid.”

“But if we let a crowd form?”

Schiano shrugged. “Maybe he'll show,” he said. “I just don't know.”

“Damn,” Smith said. “You aren't a hell of a lot of good, are you?”

“Hey,” Schiano protested, “this isn't my job! I'm an imprint programmer, not a goddamned counterspy. I didn't know I was ever going to have to stop my Spartacus!”

“Yeah, well…” Smith flung the print-out aside. “Let's just hope your Spartacus is doing something stupid here.” He turned and marched angrily away.

Schiano watched him go, then picked up the print-out. As he had expected, it was one of the notices from the nets.

“Rally!” it said. “If you saw me on the news, here's your chance to find out what it's all about.”

It went on for a few lines, and then it gave time and place. Down at the bottom it was signed, “Casper Beech, People For Change.”

What the hell was Beech up to?

Should he warn Beech that Covert knew about the rally?

He shook his head. No, he told himself, that would be putting his own neck in a noose; he didn't dare try to contact Beech again. Even sending that one message had been incredibly risky. He'd routed it through dummy accounts and six layers of anonymous remailers, done everything he could to keep it from tripping any alarms, but anything in a non-government encryption could be snagged, and any encryption could be broken if someone good wanted to work at it. And he hadn't dared do anything subtle, for fear Beech wouldn't be able to read it himself.

And Beech was too smart for this rally to be as stupid as it looked. Beech had to know he'd be exposing himself to Covert's snipers if he showed up. He must have some sort of plan in mind.

Schiano wished he knew what it was.

Casper leaned against the oily brick and looked at his watch for the hundredth time, more grateful than ever for the illuminated display.

7:58. Almost time. He reached down and picked up the first sheet of heavy, rigid plastic, then looked up. Tiny circles of light showed through the airholes in the manhole cover. That was reassuring; it meant no one had covered it over.

It had been a long, unpleasant wait down here, with his kevlar jacket and his plastic shields, but it was almost over, and the government hadn't found him.

He leaned the plastic shield against the ladder rungs, then looked down at his vest. Time to put in the ceramic inserts; he'd left them out until now to save weight, but he'd need them in place before he emerged from the manhole.

As he tucked the ceramic plates into the vest pockets he wondered if hiding down here had really been necessary. Then he smiled at his own foolishness; of course it had been necessary. Once those posters had gone up and the messages had gone out over the net, there was no way the feds would ever have let him just walk up to the appointed corner of Washington Square.

They'd let other people come, so as to lure him out, but if he'd shown his face above ground he'd have been dead meat, he knew it.

Just then the manhole cover shifted, with a heavy grating sound; grit sifted down onto his hair. Casper looked up as he smoothed down the last Velcro fastener on his vest; he stepped back further into the shadows and waited, just in case the feds had caught on.

“Cas? Are you okay?”

It was Mirim's voice.

“I'm fine,” he said. “Get it open and clear.”

“I'm trying,” she replied. “Listen, there are police all over the place-we had one guy tell us we didn't have a permit, but they haven't really tried to get rid of us.”

The manhole cover slid aside, and light poured in; Casper blinked as his eyes adjusted.

“I expected that,” he said. “What about the rooftops? See anything?”

“We aren't sure.” Casper could see Mirim now, as a shadow blocking part of the light. He could see others around the manhole, as well.

“Is the sound system set up?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Here.” He handed up the first of the bulletproof plastic panels. Someone grabbed it and lifted it away, and Casper handed up the next, and the next.

When he finally climbed the ladder out of the manhole he emerged into a booth of clear plastic shielding, each panel held by a trusted member of PFC. Each of them wore a helmet and heavy vest-lined, Casper knew, with kevlar and with ceramic shock absorbers like his own.

Together, the little clump of revolutionaries moved across the street to the sidewalk and up onto the platform set up there for Casper's use. Once he was on the platform someone handed him a microphone, passing it between two of the plastic panels.

Then the people holding the panels all sank down, sitting on the platform, ducked down low, and Casper looked out at the crowd.

The street was packed-as he had hoped. Most of them were just curiosity seekers, of course, but there might be several potential recruits, all the same.

Police were scattered around, as well. That was to be expected. There were also reporters, and a dozen or more videocameras. That was excellent. Casper wanted this as public as possible.

And somewhere out there, he was sure, there were assassins in the pay of the Covert Operations Group.

“Hello, New York!” Casper called into the microphone. “My fellow Americans, thanks for coming!”

A cheer went up.

“I'm Casper Beech, a member of People For Change, and I have a few things I want to tell you tonight-a few things about People For Change, a few things about our present government, and a few things about you!”

Another cheer. Casper heard it, but didn't pay much attention. He was listening for other things, and scanning the surrounding buildings.

“Our government has told you that I'm a terrorist, and that People For Change is an organization of terrorists, and I've come here tonight to tell you not to listen to their lies! People For Change is a peaceful political organization-we want change, all right, but we're Americans, and we believe in democracy, and in the Constitution that made this country great. We want to bring about change through the ballot box, not through terror or crime in the streets!

“And that's what scares the Republicrats!”

And the shot came.

The timing couldn't have been better if Casper had scripted it himself.

The shot itself wasn't loud. Casper wasn't even sure he'd really heard it. Its effect, though, was unmistakable. The bulletproof plastic to his right shattered spectacularly, and shards sprayed around him.

He immediately dropped and rolled, pushing aside some of his supporters. The others dropped their own shields and dove from the platform. People were screaming.

Casper still had the microphone as he clambered back down to the sidewalk.

“ That's what scares them!” Casper shouted. “People, they've been fixing the elections for decades! Who oversees the elections? The Republicrats! Why haven't any of the other parties ever gotten a foothold, no matter how unhappy the voters were? Why has the Dem-Rep Party dominated this country for…”

He'd gotten that far when someone tripped over a wire and disconnected him; there was a burst of white noise, and the sound system went dead.

And then an automatic weapon somewhere opened fire. There were more screams.