taken it. Spartacus was a rebel slave, after all-I structured it so that it would seem as if the subject had finally reached breaking point naturally, after years of mistreatment.”
“So?”
Schiano stammered.
“Look, Bob,” Smith said, “this may be the land of the free and the home of the brave, but there are losers in America, all the same, and this Beech must have been one of them.”
“Yeah, but…”
He stopped. There wasn't any point in arguing any more about it; if it had happened, it had happened.
But Schiano wondered about it, all the same. The Spartacus File required a person with an incredible and totally unrealized potential, and he had always assumed that that meant a member of the lowest classes in an oppressive society, someone who had never been given any chance at all by virtue of being born into the wrong family.
How could there have been an American who was able to accept it?
“So it's a long shot,” Smith said. “Even if it is, it's one that's come in-this Beech is out there, and we think he's doing what the Spartacus File has programmed him to do, which is to try to overthrow the government, and we want him stopped.”
“So shoot him,” Schiano said-and even as the words left his lips, he wished he hadn't said them.
Shoot Spartacus, who only wanted freedom and equality?
Shoot a man who had never done anything wrong except to be the victim of a computer error, a man of amazing potential?
Worst of all, shoot the only living manifestation of Bob Schiano's masterpiece?
“We tried,” Smith said. “Several times. He dodged a sniper, took out one hit team at his apartment and another on the street, and when we recruited an amateur Beech knew, so our guy wouldn't be spotted, Beech left the bastard tied up in a closet where our own SWAT team nearly blew the guy away.”
“Oh,” Schiano said. He blinked.
“After that last one, we lost him-he got out about five minutes before we went in after him, and at last report he was headed north on I-95 in an antique Mustang.” Smith leaned over Schiano and pointed angrily. “ You wrote that damn program,” Smith said. “You tell us where the hell he's going!”
Cecelia had gone inside five minutes before, and Mirim was getting nervous.
“What if someone spots the car?” she asked. “Or what if he's called the police? Or what if Celia turns you in?”
“Celia won't do that,” Casper said, “but maybe we should stretch our legs a bit.”
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.”
