extremely rare; we've never yet found a healthy one ourselves-it creates an individual of immense charisma and superb military ability, across the whole range from strategic planning down to personal combat, and with a compulsion to resist authority at all levels and to organize against that authority. The theory was that by programming a single individual in an unfriendly state with the Spartacus File, we could cheaply and easily cause a popular revolt that, even if it failed, would occupy that state to the exclusion of all other activities. Most of the other files are non-compulsive, or compulsive only under certain circumstances-that is, they give the recipient high ability, but they don't require that those abilities be used. Someone optimized as an assassin, for example, won't kill people at random-he'll wait until he's assigned a target. The Godzilla File is compulsive, but it's also unsubtle, very much out in the open-it's intended more as a nuisance than anything else, and without support the optimized individual is easy to dispose of, just as the city police disposed of Polnovick. The Spartacus File, however, is both subtle and compulsive-the recipient is programmed to hide, to work from concealment, and is irresistibly compelled to overthrow whatever government he finds himself subject to. And now an American has been programmed with the file, right here in Philadelphia.” He looked at the Chairman expectantly.
The Chairman looked doubtful. “Philadelphia isn't some African backwater or ex-Soviet hellhole, you know,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” Smith answered, annoyed, “but there are always malcontents and trouble-makers who can be stirred up-street people, romantic youngsters, intellectuals, people who wouldn't be satisfied with any government. A man imprinted with the Spartacus File would be able to stir up their discontent very efficiently; even if he fell short of fomenting actual revolution he would almost inevitably trigger rioting, renewed terrorism, and a great deal of other unpleasantness. As I said, it's a time bomb.”
“Well, then,” the Chairman said reasonably, “we shall have to defuse this bomb.”
“It's not going to be easy,” Smith continued. “We must be careful. This man is now programmed to identify government agents, and to react negatively and often violently to them; he's conditioned to resist all authority and stir up as much trouble as possible. Remember, everything we knew we put into this; we didn't want our Spartacus to be stopped. This was our top-of-the-line file.”
“He's still only one man, and I understand that the optimization was done without the proper preparation, so it may not even be complete; surely he can be stopped.”
“Oh, I think he can be stopped, but it won't be all that easy. Remember how difficult it's been to bring down certain terrorists.” Smith considered. “Whatever we do to him, we can't make any obvious moves to apprehend him-he'd spot it, not to mention that if he's already started gathering followers we don't need to make any martyrs. And we've got to be sure that whatever we do works the first time. A failed attempt will alert him, and may well trigger more of the Spartacus File-exactly what we want to prevent. And we have to keep it all quiet-if the File's working the way I was told it would, the man has the capability of winning over mobs, or recruiting individual converts to his cause. As long as he's alive he'll be able to turn anything we do to him, however benevolent, into anti-government propaganda-if we give him the chance by drawing attention to him.”
“I'm sure something can be arranged.” The Chairman shrugged.
“Sir,” NeuroTalents’ new executive director asked, “are you saying this man Beech is to be killed?”
“No, I'm sure that won't be necessary,” the Chairman replied. “We can have him taken into custody and neutralized by less drastic means, I'm certain.”
“I'm not,” Smith replied. “Optimization can't be reversed, you know-nothing short of a lobotomy will get the Spartacus File out of his brain now. I think we probably will need to kill him, just as Ms. Kendall says. And the sooner the better, before he can turn it into a martyrdom.”
The Chairman tapped a pencil on the table, then looked up at Smith. “NeuroTalents doesn't kill people,” he said.
“Covert does. With the proper authorization.”
“What sort of authorization are you talking about?”
“Executive order. We can get one tonight, if we have to.”
The Chairman glowered. “Let me see that report,” he said, holding out a hand.
Smith hesitated, and then replied, “No, I think we at Covert will handle this ourselves from now on.” He patted the pocket that held the report. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Chairman, but NeuroTalents is no longer concerned.”
Chapter Six
The radio clicked on on schedule the next morning; Casper lay, still half-asleep, as the regular list of catastrophes was recited. The Russian civil war was still raging, more complicated than ever, and the Fringers were still causing trouble out-system, claiming they could use non-Consortium contractors and install non-Party officials.
Then he snapped awake.
“Four youths were killed late last night in the tunnels near the City Hall subway station,” the announcer said. “The youths, whose names have not been released by the police, were walking along the tracks between City Hall and Race/Vine Station when they were struck and killed by a train as it returned to the yard for the night. A corporate spokesperson for the Philadelphia police said…”
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?”
