Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

Casper didn't think Mirim was in the mood to hear the truth-that Casper thought he was the most important person on Earth because he was the one who could fix the country, get it back on track, make the lives of millions of Americans better, and the lives of millions more people in the dozens of countries the U.S. dominated. She didn't want to hear that.

“Nothing,” he said at last. “Not in absolute terms. But Mirim, I'm more important to me, and I thought I was important to you, that you cared about me. And with this thing the feds put in my head, maybe I'm more important to the country. If we can get the oligarchs out of power and re-establish a government that's answerable to ordinary people, and not just to corporations and lawyers, there will be fewer of these stupid deaths in the future. It'll be a better life for everyone.”

“It'll be more of the same, Cas, it'll just be you and the PFC in charge instead of the Party, instead of the people running things now. And there'll probably be hundreds of deaths along the way, won't there?”

“I hope not.” Casper got up from the couch and knelt before Mirim, holding her hand. “Listen,” he said, “I think I'm doing the right thing-but maybe I'm not. I can't tell any more what's me, and what's the Spartacus File. At first I knew, at least sometimes-it was the File that got me out of Philadelphia alive, I knew that-but the lines have all blurred. You read the notes Schiano sent; you know he said that the optimization had to fit the recipient's brain perfectly, that I couldn't have taken the Spartacus File if I wasn't suited for it, and I guess he was right, because it's blended right in. I thought it was just telling me how to do what I wanted to do, but maybe it's done more. Maybe it's changing my idea of what's right and what's wrong. Maybe there's no real difference any more between Casper Beech and the Spartacus File-that idea scares me, but maybe it's true. I can't tell. You and Cecelia are my only external connection to the original Casper Beech now, and I can't trust the internal links. So you tell me-am I just doing what I'd always thought should be done, but I didn't have the nerve or the knowledge to do it? Or am I doing something I would have known was wrong, before?”

Mirim stared at him, at the familiar face of her co-worker that had become something more. There was a gleam in his eyes and a strength in his jaw that had never been there in their years at Data Tracers; she had always thought he had a certain charm, but now that had become an irresistible charisma, like a spark fanned into a roaring blaze.

How could she tell him he was wrong?

And was he wrong? She didn't know what the old Casper's political convictions had been-if he'd had any. He had griped about the government, like anyone else, but he'd never gone into specifics of what should be done about it. He had never wished anyone ill-and as far as she could tell, he still didn't wish anyone ill, except perhaps the people who ran the government, and even them, she thought, he just wanted out of power, he didn't want them harmed.

After all, the Spartacus File was supposed to enable him to lead a violent revolution, a guerrilla war-she'd seen Schiano's notes talking calmly about massacres and riots, and here Casper was transforming that into a relatively peaceful political reform movement. He was trying to reshape the Spartacus File to fit his own beliefs.

But people were dead, all the same. Only seven so far, but who knew how many more there might be if Casper went on with his plans?

“Cas,” she said, “if you were to succeed tomorrow, if you were suddenly appointed dictator of North America, what would you do? How would you be any different from any other power-hungry politician?”

“I'm not power-hungry,” he said. “I'd do my best to restore the Constitution as originally written. I'd kick out the bureaucrats who really run everything, the staff people, the paper-pushers, the lobbyists, everyone tied to the Consortium, and then I'd hold elections. I haven't worked out the details yet…”

“And you never would,” Mirim interrupted. “Reformers have taken office before with great plans, and it's always just been more of the same.”

“I'd try very hard not to be,” Casper said.

“And you think you could be different.”

“Yes, I do,” Casper said earnestly.

“And you think it's important enough that you have your chance to reform the government that it's worth people dying?”

“I think that if we had a new government of the kind I want that there wouldn't be any more Covert Operations Group killing people, that there wouldn't be any Consortium immune to half the laws, that there wouldn't be any corporate cops who can get away with killing troublemakers, so yes, I do think it's worth risking a few deaths.”

“It's worth people dying so you can be president?”

Casper shook his head. “I don't want to be president,” he said. “I just want a new government.”

“So you say.”

“I mean it!” He stared into her eyes. “Listen, Mirim,” he said, “I'm not doing this out of personal ambition, I swear it. If it'll make you give me your support, I'll make you a promise-I won't ever be president. Or dictator, or whatever. When our reforms succeed, when PFC takes power, it'll be with someone else in charge. I'm not doing this to put myself in charge.”

“You're serious?”

“Absolutely.”

And he was.

The Spartacus File required him to overthrow the present government and replace it with a more democratic one; it never specified that he, personally, had to have any role in the new one.

In fact, the idea of actually having to run a country as big and complicated as the U.S. was terrifying. He didn't want to do anything of the kind. They'd find a figurehead somewhere. Maybe Colby-he would clean up better than Ed. Much better than Ed-in fact, Ed could be a problem in the long run, a problem that might need to be eliminated.

Or maybe instead of Colby or any of the other long-time PFC people they could use Cecelia, or even Mirim herself.

Of course, Casper might still be running things behind the scenes. He wouldn't be president, he'd be chief of staff, or just an advisor with no official title. And it wouldn't be permanent.

Just until everything was settled.

No one gave any names, and while many Americans would have thought the tall man's face was familiar they wouldn't have been able to say who he was.

Smith knew, though. As part of his job he had to be able to instantly identify any high government official, just in case he happened to see one somewhere he shouldn't, and he knew who he was facing. He straightened a little further.

This was the White House Chief of Staff-the current administration's hatchet man.

The two men stared at each other, Smith stiff and nervous, the other relaxed but angry.

“So,” the tall man said at last, “you're the asshole who started a riot in New York.”

“Sir,” Smith protested, “I don't feel that's a fair description.”

“You don't.”

“No, sir.”

“You're the one who ordered a bunch of hit men to shoot someone who was giving a speech in Washington Square, right? Right out there in front of the crowd, like something from a goddamned Hollywood movie?”

“I…” Smith caught himself. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“And you didn't think that would start a riot?”

“I… Perhaps I hadn't thought out the consequences,” Smith admitted.

“And why hadn't you?”

“Sir, I considered it essential that we dispose of Casper Beech as soon as possible. I was too concerned with that to worry about collateral damage.”

“Collateral damage,” the other man said. “An anti-government riot in the middle of New York-you call that collateral damage?”